A press of desperate bodies. The clash and grind of two armies, two wills competing. Exhaustion and fatigue and raging emotions. Marek swam through it all for long, agonizing minutes, and still, he had not seen a glimpse of the Death Knight.

The soldier he inhabited was Basari. Wounded and half mad with fear, the man fought like a caged animal. Marek still wasn’t sure what kingdom the opposing army served, for the armor was so old in style, it was hardly recognizable. Bronze axes and spears made up the majority of the weapons, and most soldiers had little armor besides thick pads of rolled fabric strapped across thighs, arms, and abdomen.

Nearby, someone shouted in Basari, “Hold strong! The rebels are weak of heart! Hold, men of Basar! Hold!”

Marek digested the information. Rebels? No Basari rebellions were this intense. Most uprisings are quelled quickly. Not since… His thoughts quieted, a sense of awe overcoming him. He recalled then a thread of history he’d come across in one of Rauld’s books. Once, there’d been only three kingdoms in the Coherent Realm: Basar to the east, abutting the border of the Unbound Realm; Shirgrim, vast and spanning thousands of leagues; and Aiel in the far west.

Casteras was the first to rise up. They rose to power in the western portion of Basar, carving out their own kingdom and taking the most fertile lands for themselves. But that was… almost nine hundred years ago!

Someone screamed nearby, drawing Marek from his wandering thoughts. A soldier wreathed in crimson flame shrieked in pain, flailing his arms and crashing between the Basari. The man died a moment later. The terrible fire continued to consume his flesh at an unnatural pace. Then a figure riding on horseback filled Marek’s vision. A man covered head to toe in black armor, the immense sword in his hands made of shimmering red light.

The warrior shifted his grip on the blade to hold it in one hand. Marek was shocked to find he recognized the hilt of the infernal sword. It jutted out a full two feet, and it was made of gnarled wood. Barely visible within the sword’s fire was the rest of the staff.

Opposite hand held out, the Death Knight unleashed a gout of crimson flame. It bathed a dozen soldiers, cutting a swath through the crowd. Then, spurring his mount, the Death Knight charged deeper into the fray. His sword blurred every now and then, each time taking the head from one of Marek’s allies. After twenty Basari had fallen, the Death Knight cast a Spell. A pulse of crimson light emanated from the figure, causing the space above the fallen bodies to glow.

Marek expected the men’s spirits to rise and join the fray. Instead, streams of power returned to the Death Knight, absorbing into the man’s chest. Whoever was hidden behind the stark black helm screamed, yet the sound conveyed ecstasy, not pain.

As the Basari attempted to recover, a trio of mages strode from their midst to Marek’s left. The men flung Spells at the Death Knight: two were bolts of blue mana, and the third, a wall of conjured water. The Spells crashed into the dark mage, but they seemed to strike an invisible barrier. Surrounding the Death Knight’s body was a second layer of armor, this one forged of pure energy. It, rather than the mage, took damage, and the attack proved insufficient to shatter that protection.

Leaping down from the horse, the Death Knight confronted the attackers. He swung his sword in a broad slash. The blade lit up, and a swath of crimson power arced from its keen edge. The mages died, bodies bisected by the fell magic. The soldier Marek inhabited screamed as the arc continued well past its mark. The attack cut through the Basari like a scythe through wheat. Marek’s point of view shifted as the top half of the soldier’s body crashed to the ground. As the vision began to fade, the black-clad terror seemed to blur and skip through space. Emerging ten feet away, four more soldiers died when a ring of crimson energy blasted outward from his chest.

Stomach searing with pain, Marek yowled as he emerged from the vision. The lingering sensation of being cut in half stayed with him for a few agonizing seconds. “Gods, old and new! Blasted hells!” Marek cried, clutching his stomach and kneeling before the third statue of the Remnant Mage. “Why didn’t you warn me? Feels pretty damned awful to keep on dying like this!”

“You only died twice,” Serin said in a flat tone. “I’ve done it thousands of times. Don’t be so dramatic.”

Marek scoffed. He wanted to shout at the boy, to smack him upside the head, his age and true form be damned—but of course, the numbing effect of his Soulspace rapidly eased his anxiety and snuffed out the flames of his anger.

“Don’t think many reactions can be considered dramatic when it comes to dying,” Marek replied. “Pretty sure everything is fair game at that point.”

Rising to his feet, Marek walked away from the three statues. He studied their blank visages, knowing he couldn’t delay much longer. There was a sense of urgency building within him. As Serin had said, time here wasn’t infinite, just extended.

“Calamity Mage is out,” he said firmly. “I want to command men, not slaughter entire cities.” He shivered. “That’s too dark a path for me.”

“Depends on who you slaughter. The Subclass is repulsive, I admit, but it’s how one wields the sword, not the sword itself, that dictates right and wrong.”

Marek nodded. “Point taken, but still, I don’t want it.”

As if his decision were final, the green light in the second statue’s crystal winked out. Purple and crimson remained, and Marek felt his desires warring for dominance. The choice weighed heavy, feeling like the most important decision he would ever make.

“Lead men and an army of spirits,” he said under his breath, holding out his left hand with palm facing up, “or fight like a Rift born and become an army of one. Damn, but this is tough. I’ve always wanted to command, but those dreams were shaped because my body was too weak to wield a sword effectively. If I had the strength of a Death Knight…”

His voice trailed off and he sighed. Either way, he’d be giving up something dear. “Principalities guide me, if I could only have both.” He laughed at the audacity of his words… then paused and pushed off the pillar with a kick of his boot, mouth hanging open. “Wait! Serin, can I choose both? Is that an option?”

The boy rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “Of course it’s not! You can’t just… Oh!” Serin’s eyes widened. “Actually… well, why has no one asked that before?” It was almost as if he were having a conversation with an unseen party. He waved his hand dismissively and said, “Can’t advise you do so. Good chance your soul will be destroyed in the process, and really, it’s a dishonorable path, so I suggest you—”

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Abruptly, Serin’s voice cut off. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling for a long and awkward moment. Then he nodded in obvious annoyance. “Okay! Fine, I’m not here to give my opinion. I’m just a guide. I get it!”

Marek frowned, eyes following Serin’s. “Who are you talking to?”

The boy groaned, shoulders slumping. “Oh, only myself… sort of. Anyway, it doesn’t matter and I can’t tell you anyway. Apparently, there are rules!” His final words became a shout.

A dozen questions cropped up, but Marek chose to listen to the boy. Truly, it didn’t matter—not in the face of this decision, at least. Coming to that conclusion, he asked, “So, I can choose two?”

Serin shrugged. “Yep! Guess so. Nobody told me that, but yes, Kaiteras whelp, you can.”

Again with the strange name. Marek shoved the distraction aside and ignored the cold fear pressing against the wall in his mind, seeking to dissuade all risks. “And what about my soul… Will it be destroyed or not? Can you clarify?”

“You’ll probably be fine. Progressing two Classes at once comes with a price, though. You won’t gain more Spells and Skills; rather, you’ll be able to select them from a wider pool of options…” Serin was muttering now, sulking like a child and refusing to meet Marek’s gaze. For the first time since Marek had entered the Crucible, the boy actually looked his age. It was an uncanny shift that left Marek uneasy.

He’d gotten his answer, though. Marek decided to take advantage of his altered mental state. Unhindered by fear and doubt, he could process everything with startling clarity. He considered what had just transpired. Someone or something had interrupted Serin, cut off the boy from giving his advice, almost as if it had wanted Marek to make this choice. Or, at the very least, have the opportunity to choose two Subclasses. If his life’s path was taking such a dramatic shift, Marek had the feeling there would be plenty of danger to come. He might as well get used to taking risks. And his intuition was telling him this would be worth it.

Besides, I want every shred of power I can get, he thought, hardening his resolve. He cleared his throat and answered, “I choose Soul Singer and Death Knight as my Subclasses!”

No sooner had he spoken than the two sources of light slipped free of the crystals that held them. As if moving on the faintest of breezes, the purple and red torches floated toward one another. Their vivid hues blended, creating a reddish-violet glow. Marek found it breathtakingly beautiful.

Then things took a turn for the worse. A warbling filled Marek’s ears, growing louder at a startling pace. Pressure built within his ribcage. Soon, he found it hard to breathe. Body weakening, tingles spreading down his arms and legs, he fell to his knees. Helpless, he could only endure and watch the colors blend into one.

The moment the two spheres of light touched, reality came apart at the seams. Pain unlike anything he’d experienced took him. It wore him like a glove, filled him body and soul, leaving no room for thought or regret. His awareness trembled amid a sea of agony. He felt so incredibly small. The ocean he was drowning in stretched wider and wider, its waters deepening.

Every inch it expanded, Marek paid for.

A moment or a lifetime later, the ocean’s tide calmed. Marek sensed the partition at work again. It soothed his frayed nerves and lapped up the agony. “Where was I?” he asked no one in particular.

Serin responded, startling the man who’d forgotten the Crucible, the choice of his Subclass, and the boy’s name. “Your Spirit Core. It was forced to greatly expand. I knew your choice wouldn’t come easy.”

It all returned to Marek in bits and pieces. He touched his chest, where the pain had been concentrated. “My Spirit Core… This is where I store my power? How is it different from my Mana Core?”

“One holds ether, the other mana,” Serin answered. The boy wasn’t annoyed as he had been before. In fact, he looked at Marek with what could almost pass as begrudging respect. “And if you’re going to ask, your Soulspace differs in that it is not a physical space, but a construct of your own mind—a little perk of the Remnant Mage Class.”

Marek nodded. “Thank you, Serin,” he said before turning his awareness inward. “My body—it’s changed. I…

“You’ve created something new. Combining Soul Singer with Death Knight, you’ve become the world’s first Soul Knight. Congratulations.”

Marek stared down at his hands, fingers splayed. Potential both endless and alluring called to him. “Soul Knight… damn, if that doesn’t sound fantastic. And I have new Abilities, yes? I can feel them, waiting for my command. Principalities, how strange is that?”

His guide kept quiet, no doubt knowing what Marek needed: time to adjust and experiment with the powers he’d inherited. The young man couldn’t repress a laugh. “What is Mirrin going to say? I’ll bet he never thought his sickly nephew would unlock a rare and powerful Class! When I leave this place, I’ll be strong enough to go anywhere in the Coherent Realms! Won’t be but a chore to head up into Shirgrim for some herbs. Maybe I can even bring enough back to cure him! Then we can both be a little happier.”

Serin scoffed. “Big talk for someone that hasn’t even survived the Crucible yet. Might want to keep your expectations in check until then.”

Marek laughed again, unable to help himself. But Serin was right. He shook himself free of fantasies and daydreams. He could sense the ending of something. Time was running out, and he needed to familiarize himself with his newfound Spells and Abilities.

The strangest part was… he knew them all intimately. The Remnant Mage Class came with two Passive Abilities, the first of which he’d activated instinctually.

***

Remnant Mage Passive Abilities

Empath’s Gaze: You can see and communicate with the spirits of the dead as well as gaze inwardly at your Cores, Class information, and Attributes.

Soulspace: You’ve gained the ability to enter the sanctuary of your own mind. This is a place of refuge and tranquility which grants the Remnant Mage clarity of mind, and may even offer escape from certain maladies.

***

“Amazing!” Marek cried out, reading the information like it had been drafted in his mind. “If I can see my Passive Abilities, then…” His voice trailed off as he shifted his focus, and just like that, a list of Spells cropped up.

***

Active Abilities: Subclass Soul Knight (Available during Crucible)

Command Spirit - From Soul Singer Subclass

Elevate Champion - From Soul Singer Subclass

Spirit Armor - From Death Knight Subclass

Dreadful Cut - From the Death Knight Subclass

Ether Siphon - From Death Knight Subclass

Ravening Flare - From Death Knight Subclass

***

After staring in shock at the information for far too long, Marek threw back his head and cackled. It wasn’t hard to guess which of the powers from the dream sequences were now his. “Oh, Mags is going to hate me when I show her what I can do! This is wild! I wonder if even Rauld could keep up with me now? Oh, Serin, the old mage is going to lose his wits when he learns that little Marek, the Sigilist’s nephew, has become a great and powerful wizard!”

Serin growled, visage melting, causing Marek to shy away. The boy’s legs and torso vanished next, transforming into a cloud of liquid smoke.

“Hey, what’s the deal?” Marek squeaked. “What are you doing?”

“You’ve pushed the limits of my patience!” Serin answered, voice deep and booming. The shape of the daemon Marek had seen in his vision coalesced before his very eyes. “First off, you aren’t powerful yet, nor will you hold a candle to the Archmage’s strength, even if you survive. Secondly, there’s no such thing as a Wizard Class!”

All but a single arm of the once innocent-looking child was gone. The arm snapped its fingers a moment before the limb turned into slick, black shadow. “Good luck, Soul Knight,” the daemon voice said. “You’ll need it.”

As the snap reverberated in the vast chamber, the great columns evaporated. A fine white mist filled Marek’s vision. When the world returned to him, it had changed entirely.

“Principalities,” he whispered, surrounded on all sides by darkness.