“I know what you’re thinking. Something reductive about this part, am I right? The legendary Remnant Mage Class divided up and stylized like some customizable suit of armor…” Serin held his chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger. “Obviously, there’s only one real choice here anyhow. As soon as you observe the dream sequences, you’ll understand.”

Marek realized his jaw was hanging from its hinges. He scrambled to collect himself, grateful for the emotional repression his Soulspace offered. Soon, his logic alone remained, allowing him to ask simply, “Dream sequences?”

Serin’s look of scrutiny and reverence faded into annoyance. “Could you at least try to sound bright?”

“I’m plenty intelligent,” Marek said, an edge of defensiveness sharpening his words. “Not every day you tumble into your own mind after being surrounded by ghosts begging you to summon them, only to have a shirtless little brat scold you for acting surprised! Give me a little grace, will you?”

Marek’s question rang in the vast space, echoing endlessly off the countless pillars.

Serin’s eyes widened a little, his mouth closed firmly. After a long beat, the child smiled. “Fair enough,” he said, conceding the point. “The dream sequences show you the potential of each path offered to you. Touch one of the crystals, and you’ll be given a glimpse of one of your predecessors at the height of their power.”

Marek stepped closer to the figure whose staff gave off a rich purple hue. He studied the statue’s face and body briefly, but its features were as vague and unfinished as the other two. Marek stretched out his hand. It didn’t tremble in the slightest as he touched the crystal.

The chamber darkened, and the purple light burning through his fingers expanded until he could see little else. Serin’s slim form blurred in the corner of his eye. The child grew taller, darker, like a writhing shadow. “Excellent,” it hissed. “A wise choice.”

Then, in a flash, Marek was in another time and place.

“I will say this only once more!” a voice bellowed. “Turn back and return to your king! There will be no glory for you in Ardea—not while I draw breath!”

Marek’s vision slowly solidified. He observed the scene through the eyes of a soldier, one standing among many. I am Ignathis, twenty-seven years old and husband to Dasia, he knew intuitively. I’m one among a thousand strong. Five hundred men of the line, two hundred on horseback still hidden in the tree line, two hundred with Casteran crossbows, and a hundred mages for support. Glancing to his right and left, he admired the polished steel armor of his companions.

Another man spoke in the tense stillness, voice steeped in confidence. “We waste words, Mage. If you wish me gone from your lands, try your best. Powerful though your kind may be, I will not return to my king until we’ve reclaimed the northern reaches.”

A surge of pride swelled in the soldier’s heart, soon followed by fear. Marek felt both as if they were his own. Honor is costly, a voice said in his head. And should I fall, Dasia will be taken care of with my death pension.

It was the soldier he occupied, Marek realized. It was uncanny, sharing a body and mind.

Recalling his purpose was to witness the potential of one of the three paths of the Remnant Mage, he quieted his mind. As strange as the experience was, Marek was only an observer here. The two leaders ceased their banter and the mage returned to the Ardean army, lowering the white banner of parley. The mage was short, broad of chest and shoulders, with a tangle of dark hair partially concealed beneath a black cloak. A strip of purple fabric lined the hood and hem of the cloak. Strangely, the man wielded nothing but his staff and the dagger strapped to his thigh.

Horns were blown, orders shouted in High Casteran. Marek marveled, for he understood all that was spoken. Then the invading force advanced. No more than a hundred soldiers blocked their way. All were on foot but for the mage. The Ardeans had some cover, but the wall stood only three feet high in some places.

They don’t stand a chance, the soldier told himself, fear spiking as the twang of longbows sounded beyond the wall. Arrows fell, and the soldier hefted a shield, catching one of the projectiles and continuing onward.

As the army came within fifty yards of the wall, the commander shouted an order they’d all been expecting. “Charge! For King Laedis and Casteras!”

The soldier jogged toward the wall. He kept in line with his companions, all with shields at the ready and spears tilted forward. In his periphery, Marek saw the cavalry sweeping wide to flank the defenders. The crossbowmen were in range, and their first volley would fell at least a dozen men. It wouldn’t be so bad after all.

But the great mage the soldier had heard the other men whispering about each night had other plans.

The Ardeans parted, leaving the middle of the wall unmanned. The mage held aloft a dark staff. A large gemstone glowed at the tip, emitting a purple glow. Swirls of purple mana rose around the figure, and Marek could hear the mage’s voice as he conjured some arcane Spell. Without warning, two ranks of ethereal warriors appeared from thin air. The ghostly figures of fallen warriors absorbed the threads of mana surrounding the Remnant Mage, borrowing the man’s power. Most were common soldiers, bearing similar attire and equipment to their fleshy comrades. Three, however, soon stood apart.

The spirit soldiers clambered over the wall and into the Casteran lines, movements swift and feral. Soon, the shouts of men dying filled the air. Three great warriors caught Marek’s eye, emerging from the back ranks of the summoned creatures. One at a time, they grew taller, the energy that comprised them burning brighter. Each carried a large battle axe.

When the hulking warriors reached the wall, they let out howls of rage and crashed through the center of the Casteran forces. Marek looked to his right and saw the commander cut in half by a ghostly axe. Fear pierced the heart of the soldier, and the man nearly bolted. A shout from an officer behind him held him firm, however, and he prepared to engage the spirits.

The battle still might have been managed had that been the extent of the mage’s tricks. One of the apparitions broke apart with a shriek after a Casteran spear pierced its glowing heart. The creatures could be killed, even if they were ghastly and terrifying to encounter. Yet the ghosts were increasing in number. Every time a Casteran fell, the enemy gained an ally.

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Staff held aloft, the mage cast another Spell that spread out in a wave all around him. The Ardean soldiers were blanketed with purple mist. Their eyes shone as they shouted the mage’s praise. A small force of them charged into the hole created by the spirit soldiers, and Marek couldn’t help but marvel at the speed and power of their movements. They’ve been… enhanced? How is that possible? Only a mage with a support Class should be able to do that.

These enhanced warriors outmatched their foes. They even withstood some of the Spells thrown their way from the Casteran mages hidden within the invading army. A few of the magic wielders buffed their own soldiers, allowing the Casterans to match their enhanced foes. Despite this, the soldier Marek viewed the battle with began to despair… for the terrible Ardean mage was still not done meddling.

“Allon Kazeniel! Take form and feed!” the mage cried. More power poured out from the man’s staff, filling the air. Then a blackness darker than night joined it. It consumed the offered power and took form. Where there had once been a shadow, now a terrible creature coated in sable scales soared above the ground. It opened leonine jaws, roaring in outrage.

The fell spirit picked up speed and flew at Marek. The soldier he occupied froze in place, arms and legs rigid with terror. So frightened was the Casteran, he couldn’t even scream when the wraith took him.

Marek gasped, stumbling back and touching his chest where imagined fangs had pierced him. “Principalities!” Marek cried. “That was terrible!”

“And inspiring,” Serin said beside him. “The Soul Singer is of course the most radiant of the three Subclasses. No doubt you’ll choose the purple. It is the only logical choice.”

Marek’s Soulspace quieted his emotions. In moments, his heart slowed and he turned to the shirtless boy. “If it’s the only choice, why is there a choice at all?”

Serin rolled his eyes. “Well, Calamity Mage and Death Knight appeal to some. The first heir of the Remnant Mage Class was a Soul Singer, though. Let that inform your decision.”

Marek would consider the information, but he was not yet done seeing the offered dreams. First, he thought he might clear up a few things about what he’d just witnessed. “Soul Singer, the path I just witnessed—it specializes in commanding the dead? Like a Death Mage? Yet it can also empower allies?”

Serin sneered at Marek. “Death Mages deal in flesh. They’re common necromancers and quite disgusting to deal with, though arguably powerful if left to grow in power. They are the Remnant Mage’s unfortunate opposition; don’t forget it. And yes, Soul Singer is a both a summoner and support Class. Enhancing the strengths of allies and filling the ranks with spirits is the Subclass’s bread and butter.”

“And that… shadow thing?” Marek asked, recalling the wraith.

“That thing was what some fools call a familiar,” Serin answered. “More properly a companion. It’s a being bound to the Soul Singer. Simple and weak at first, the daemon grows in power along with its master.”

Marek took in the information. His logical mind worked at full speed, unhindered by worry or distraction. He would miss the Soulspace’s muting of his fear and doubt. “Demon, like the Rift born?” he asked, approaching the next statue.

Serin pursed his lips in thought. “Dae-mon,” he pronounced carefully. “And to answer, sort of. It’s… a lot to explain. For now, know the daemon is a spirit the Soul Singer can always summon. One that can survive death time and again.” The boy studied Marek, seemingly disappointed that the young man would even glimpse the other dream sequences.

Marek hadn’t come here for the boy, though. Somehow, he’d been given a remarkable opportunity. Under the strange effects of the Soulspace, he held no room for doubt. He would become the next Remnant Mage, a Class most considered to be myth. And given the weight of the choice before him, Marek knew he needed all the available information.

“Which Subclass is the green called?” Marek asked, lifting his fingers to hover above the crystal.

“Calamity Mage,” Serin remarked dryly.

As before, the chamber fell into darkness, and Marek was given a glimpse of the past. This time, the Remnant Mage was a woman, tall and beautiful despite a scar bisecting her face. She was Casteran, a fact that puzzled Marek. Yet after some though, he had to admit it would be stranger still if the Class were unique to a single kingdom.

This dream sequence was shorter than the last. The Calamity Mage rode to the front of a vast army. She passed by rank upon rank of soldiers until she stood facing a towering castle protected by fifty-foot walls of stone. Moat filled and a single bridge giving access to the castle, the siege would be costly.

Marek occupied the body of Tissuman, the mage’s assistant that led her through the host. They came to the commander of the forces, a gaunt man that was visibly relieved to see the mage’s coming. “Thank the Crown you’re here. I wasn’t sure if the King would send you.”

“I’m here,” the woman said simply. “I assume this is the siege you want me to break?”

The commander stammered and blinked his copper eyes a few times. “I… Yes, Mage Lord, that is what I had hoped. I don’t mean to presume on your powers, but… do you think it possible?”

The woman smiled. A coldness in her eyes sent a shiver up her assistant’s spine. “Yes, I think it possible. I need a force of men to accompany my spirit warriors. Men willing to give the ultimate sacrifice to their king.”

Again, the commander was caught off guard. He consented, however, and a short time later, twenty men with large tower shields were brought forth. The Calamity Mage nodded and began her work. Verdant mana filled the figures of half a dozen spirit soldiers. These were of the common type, and Marek couldn’t understand why the mage thought so few would be enough. Yet the woman’s confidence didn’t falter.

She poured mana from her staff, bathing the spirits in power. Their ethereal forms grew brighter and brighter, and after a time they began vibrating. A hum filled the air, and the Casteran allies backed away in fear. Tissuman’s fear spiked to such a degree that Marek had to brace himself. He found his borrowed hands shaking uncontrollably.

“They are ready,” the mage said at last.

The men charged the distant wall, the spirits walking in their midst, shielded from the arrows that would come.

Marek watched the defenders respond almost sluggishly. Such high walls must have lent them a great deal of confidence. Still, a horn was sounded, and archers fired on the small force as it neared the bridge. A few Casterans fell as they crossed, yet they eventually reached the wall.

The defenders moved great pots of oil across the top of the wall to spill across the Casterans’ backs. Marek doubted any would survive.

Before that could happen, the course of the battle shifted indefinitely. An explosion, the likes of which Marek had never witnessed, ruptured the horizon. A hundred feet of the wall buckled, a pillar of green flame and smoke rose into the sky, and a ripple of power flew out across the empty plain in a ring.

Gasps could be heard all around, though these were soon drowned out by the boom that swept over them half a second later.

The Calamity Mage smiled at her work. Her assistant shook in fear, questioning how many had died in the single attack. Surely hundreds. I cannot fathom why the King relies on her, let alone allows her to take in breath. She’s evil incarnate.

Marek sympathized with the mage’s assistant, but even so, he found the woman impressive.

Her power was undeniable.

“Shall I conjure Fog of Death, or perhaps Derangement?” the Calamity Mage asked cheerfully. “If those are too banal, I could always drum up a Fetid Bog or two. Those are quite effective if you’re hoping to starve out the enemy. My less direct methods take a while to work, but their efficacy is undeniable. With time, I could eradicate them all.”

The commander stared up at the woman, eyes wide and pupils dilated to pinpricks. “No,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “that won’t be necessary. The king would rather have more subjects than a vast graveyard as a prize. Th-thank you, Mage Lord. That will be all.”

The woman nodded before turning back the way she’d come.

Marek swallowed his revulsion when he returned to the chamber. He desired power—that, he wouldn’t deny. His entire life, he’d dreamed of commanding an army, of seeking glory on a battlefield. To do so would require power. “But not like that,” he whispered. “Principalities, I won’t become that.”

Serin hummed nearby. The two exchanged looks, and though the boy’s blank expression remained, Marek knew Serin was pleased by his reaction. “Time is slowed in your Soulspace, but the Crucible must be completed before dawn in the waking world. Observe the last, if you must”—Serin nodded to the crimson gem—“then make your decision.”