A vision more pressing and real than anything Marek had seen so far unfolded before his eyes. The blackness slowly gave way as his eyes adjusted to his dark surroundings. No, not a vision, he thought, moving the fingers of his right hand. This time it’s just me in here. The body Marek possessed obeyed his will, not that of another. Yet his optimism faded when he discovered that body was in a great deal of pain.

He groaned, nearly overwhelmed by the white-hot agony blossoming in his torso. A few ribs on the right side of his chest were broken. The bones scraped together when he tried to move, which quickly dispelled the idea of sitting up. Panting shallowly, Marek instead observed the room around him. Lit by a single torch fastened to a nearby wall, the stone glistened wetly. Just discernible in the glow was a sequence of vertical bars.

Excellent, he thought. I’m in a dungeon.

Thankfully, the partition in his mind still aided him here. The wild panic that threatened to consume him was held at bay. Marek was indeed afraid, for he knew the gravity of the situation; he was simply afforded the ability to think and process it all from a safer distance.

I’ve been sent here by Serin, or whatever that thing was that wore him as a costume. I have to figure out what to do next. This must be the Crucible, and I doubt I can pass the test by lying here. Why didn’t he at least give me some instructions?

Summoning his strength, Marek gritted his teeth. No matter what his course of action would be, he needed to sit up. Again, he was confronted with intense pain. There were at least two sources: his ribcage and left shoulder. In addition to the fiery pain, Marek felt resistance as well. Something’s holding me down. It’s like my back is bolted to the ground. He gave up, head smacking against wood. Then he heard a grunt, saw the silhouette of a man rise from the corner of the room, and footsteps came closer.

“The little mage is awake,” the man said, his voice sounding strange. “Awful tame now, aren’t you?”

Marek’s mind spun for a solution. Can I bribe this man? Convince him to help me escape? What’s the blasted goal of this Crucible? Wishing in vain he’d been told his purpose here, Marek fell back on the only training he’d received for such encounters. Unfortunately for him, those were the actions of fictional men in the pages of popular fables. “Please,” he croaked out, throat raw—no doubt from screaming. “Help me and I’ll reward you handsomely.”

The man only laughed, and Marek had the urge to smack himself in the head. I’ll reward you handsomely? Come on, Marek. Think! “I… I can give you gold,” he said, trying to sound confident. “Or anything else you want?”

“What I want is to see you interrogated by the priests,” the jailor said. “Humble men by day, but nasty buggers at night.” None of the man’s face was visible, but Marek could smell the rot of neglected teeth. “Stay down, or I’ll put another nail through you,” he hissed, voice rattling with phlegm.

Marek’s mind immediately reacted to the statement. What does he mean by nail?

His captor’s heavy hand fell on his left shoulder. “Best I be cautious,” the man said. “Boss said you were a feisty one.” Then, before Marek could speak a word, a hammer clanged. A jolt of pain tore through the joint between shoulder and collarbone.

Marek listened to his body scream. He’d been right after all. The man’s threat had been quite literal.

The jailer chuckled grimly and left Marek to writhe on the table.

Time passed, and the mercy of numbness soothed his pain. Marek came to an obvious conclusion. Okay, we don’t talk to that asshole. Then what? It’s not like I can use Intuit just to imagine a hundred novel ways of remaining nailed to this table. But wait… Principalities, throw me in the Rift. I have other Abilities now, don’t I?

There was no point in scolding himself. He’d woken in a dungeon, nailed to a blasted table by two huge spikes. He could afford some leniency. Soul Knight, he thought, jogging his memory. I can see my Class Abilities; that’s one of the passives I gained.

He flicked through the six options, one immediately drawing his eye. Ravening Flare! he thought, remembering the crimson fire devouring the soldier in the Death Knight’s dream sequence. I can melt the bastard and be done with it! But… but then what? Who will let me out? Besides, he thought grimly, I don’t think I can cast a Spell right now. Not that one, at least. I feel drained.

Marek knew the Spell was costly. He couldn’t sense his mana, though whether it was due to some absence in this body or the Crucible itself was unclear. His ether, though… That’s what Serin called it. My Spirit Core—it’s nearly depleted, but I do have a little. Enough for…

He again sifted through his options. Devastating Cut and Spirit Body both required a hefty investment of power as well, though less than the fire attack. Those were out of the question for the time being. Marek wasn’t sure exactly how Ether Siphon functioned, but when he considered it further, intuitive knowledge flooded his mind. He read the description as if it had been written in a book.

***

Ether Siphon: Draw upon a lingering spirit’s ether, claiming the power for yourself. Siphoned ether can be used to replenish your Spirit Core or fuel other Abilities.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

***

Damn! Empath’s Gaze is so convenient. Wish I’d been able to use this years ago, though not sure what I’d have done with it.

Not seeing a handy spirit anywhere, Marek glanced at the jailor. The bastard stubbornly refused to die on the spot, so Marek nearly abandoned the line of thinking when his mind leapt to another possibility. His torso was affixed firmly to the table, but his head wasn’t. Straining a stiff neck, Marek twisted his head to the left as far as it would go.

The jailor sat on a bench, arms folded and chin resting on his chest. Thick-armed and soft in the middle, Marek sized up his captor. After surmising the man was a minimal threat, armed only with a belt knife, Marek’s eyes continued to wander. A few whips, tongs, and barbed implements of torture hung below the torch nearby. Craning his neck up, Marek found only another stone wall. He looked down between his feet. The bars of his cell were there, and a door cut from the same crude metal.

Finally, Marek twisted his head to the right, wincing as he did so and ignoring the spasm that flared in his neck. Taken aback by what he saw, Marek’s whole body jerked in reflex. Pain erupted through his body, forcing out an unbidden groan.

The jailor snorted but thankfully didn’t wake.

There, pacing back and forth along the wall, was what his Ability called a lingering spirit. The poor creature had a disheveled look, wisps of hair sticking up in patches, eyes wide in a sunken face. So ragged was its attire, and so ravaged its form, that Marek couldn’t even tell what sex it had been when alive. Unlike the souls he’d seen rising from the barrows, this one was covered in flesh. Somehow, the gaunt creature was more harrowing to look at than the skeletal figures had been.

Marek’s heart slowed, and he observed the thing cautiously. The spirit just carried on pacing as if Marek weren’t there, wringing its thin hands anxiously. Okay, then I guess I can use it? he wondered, looking at the spirit from a different perspective. His first instinct was to activate Ether Siphon, but he restrained himself.

Even if he slew the guard, he remained trapped in the cell—and worse, stuck to the table. There was a chance he could tear himself free, but that idea left Marek shuddering.

That left only one other option.

Normally, it took hours of practice to activate a new Skill, and sometimes years to hone. The Crucible of the Remnant Mage apparently came certain advantages, however—one of them being an easy mastery of his Abilities. Whispering Command Spirit mentally, Marek performed the first of his miracles.

An invisible link joined him to the creature immediately. The pacing spirit stopped and faced Marek. Shoulders relaxing a little, it seemed to wait to be told what to do. Suddenly, Marek knew many things about his spirit. It was weak, physically inept compared to an average man, and it lacked the skill to wield a weapon effectively. Marek sensed complete obedience, however. It would attempt anything he commanded, which was fortunate. He only needed the thing to perform a simple task.

Speaking with his thoughts, Marek uttered his first command.

And the spirit obeyed.

Soundless, it flitted to the side of the table. Each hand gripped the head of a spike, and before Marek could suggest it might do so carefully, the spirit yanked both nails free of the table. Marek screamed as the pocked metal tore from his shoulder and abdomen. He clutched his ribs with his right arm, his left now dangling numb and useless at his side.

Marek’s vision shrank. He nearly lost consciousness, but he drew a deep breath, fighting to stay present. Now wasn’t the time for a nap.

For the jailor’s part, the man had sprung to his feet and was screaming in horror and surprise, as he too apparently saw the apparition. Though Marek’s creature only stood and awaited another command, it would be an awful thing to see when first waking. The spirit stood rigid, eyes bulging, holding a long, bloody spike in each hand.

The man responded how many would in his place, cursing up a storm. Marek knew he had a choice. He could send the spirit to attack the jailor—it was indeed armed—yet he’d seen that even the remnant dead could be killed. Small as the jailor’s knife was, it could destroy the spirit. Without further hesitation, Marek cast Ether Siphon. No unholy scream came from the creature, and it didn’t thank Marek for releasing it from its tortured existence. The spirit’s form merely dimmed as a stream of power poured into Marek’s outstretched hand.

Icy power raced through Marek’s veins. He filled his lungs in a gasp, ribs popping into place. The wounds in his body began to knit themselves shut.

The spirit vanished altogether. No longer held aloft, the spikes fell to the ground.

Two things happened then, one after the other. The first occurred in Marek’s mind. As he stood up from the table and arched his spine, his injuries almost completely healed, he reveled in a peculiar sensation that he’d been denied his entire life. He was healthy. His body was strong.

Marek felt absolutely capable.

Next, the inevitable transpired. Yanked back to the reality of the situation, the jailor drew his knife and attacked. The man had the blunt hands of a laborer. He was undoubtedly strong—Marek could judge that at a glance—yet he wasn’t skilled in fighting.

Rather than a straightforward thrust, the jailor lifted the blade above his head and brought it down in an arc. The knife would have sunk into the top of Marek’s shoulder, near the neck.

The Sigilist’s nephew didn’t feel like being stabbed, though. Marek figured he’d had enough steel in his body for one day. And unlike the jailor, he knew the basics of close combat. Having a friend like Mags made that fact a foregone conclusion. Despite his ever-present frailty, Mags had dragged him through more hours of sparring and drills by the time he’d turned fifteen than some soldiers. And compared to his nimble friend, this brute was sluggish and clumsy.

Marek stepped into the attack. Left hand flicking up, he caught the jailor’s forearm. Rotating his hips, upper body twisting rapidly, he pulled the jailor’s hand toward him for leverage. Then Marek’s elbow found its mark. It landed like a hammer blow, and he heard two sickly pops. As the jailor collapsed to the floor, he saw his opponent’s cheekbone had shattered. Half of the bastard’s face was caved in. And judging by the hideous angle of the jailor’s neck, the spine had gone as well.

All was quiet in the dungeon. Only the pounding of Marek’s heart and the faint rasp of his breath interrupted the silence. He stared at the hands attached to this borrowed body, unable to believe how quickly the fight had ended. “By the Old Gods,” he whispered. “Is this what it feels like to be strong?”

He fought down the urges to scream in joy and triumph, to weep for the misery he’d endured in his normal life. The rest of the Crucible awaited. Thus, he clamped down on the ecstatic energy roiling through his veins. Soon it vanished behind the partition, leaving him calm and steady.

He glanced down at the corpse at his feet and saw a spirit worming its way free. Without hesitation, he drew in the being’s ether. A portion of Spirit Core, filled with power.

Then he searched the jailor’s body.

A minute later, Marek was creeping down a dark hall, a set of keys in one hand and a knife in the other.