Marek killed one other man in the course of his escape. A drunken guard had been sitting outside the dungeon, and the poor lout hadn’t recognized the danger until Marek dragged the stolen knife across his throat.

Rather than claim the pathetic spirit, Marek decided to invest once more in his power. Ether Siphon drained the guard’s spirit in seconds, filling Marek’s Core further.

He took the man’s cudgel and left the dungeon behind.

I’m in a keep of some kind. Wish I knew what my goal was. Serin could have told me that much. Despite his thoughts, he couldn’t summon anger toward the… thing that had guided him through his Subclass selection. Fear had always been a constant companion. Now held at bay, his body stout and true power at his fingertips, Marek felt alive.

Thankfully, the emotional sponge that was his Soulspace absorbed his excitement too. It had likely saved him from rushing ahead into danger. He settled for a slow jog and crept through the gray stone buildings, coming to an alley. Marek trod over grime-covered stones, slowing when he heard something ahead. Were those voices?

Wind blew through the alley, kicking up leaves, and the sound was lost. Unsure of what to expect ahead, he walked heel to toe to the end of the alley and peered around the corner. He found an open courtyard between four tall buildings. It was largely abandoned but for three men. The first was a priest, who was kneeling over the corpse of someone freshly beheaded. Last rites, if Marek had to guess. Another was the executioner himself. A big man with shoulders as wide as an oak, he ran a cloth along the length of the large sword, cleaning it meticulously.

“Sir, I’m afraid the task is not possible,” the third man said, voice barely audible from where Marek observed. “There’s too much blood soaked in! I don’t know where the blood stops and the wood begins!”

The executioner grunted, eyes focused on his task. “Clean it as best you can, Irwin. Don’t be so damn literal. It’s a chopping block. Of course you won’t get all the blood out of it.”

Finishing the rites, the priest crossed his chest, forming the six-pointed star of the Principalities in the air before saying, “Very good, then. Sir Rhinweld, you’ll be expected at the chapel shortly. Do make sure you clean up a little. My senior asked to make sure you were presentable.” Robes fluttering, the priest left the others behind.

Marek had other plans. Aside from the three living souls in the courtyard, his Empath’s Gaze picked up on many more that had expired some time ago. The spirits floated or shambled around the short stage that held the chopping block. All were in different states of decay, and Marek wondered if perhaps their appearance had more to do with how long they’d been deceased rather than their condition at the time of death.

He tucked aside the thought, intending to ask Serin about it later, and called upon what was rapidly becoming his favorite Spell. Better not to waste resources, he thought, unaware of the chilly pragmatism of the idea. I think the good priest might be delayed.

Marek focused on a tall, skeletal ghost shambling a few paces in front of the priest. It held an impressive mace in one hand. He wondered why some of the spirits wandering the courtyard were armed and others not, then decided to command the creature to do his bidding and be done with it. The apparition brightened after Command Spirit did its work, becoming visible for all to see. The priest shrieked once before his head popped like a grape. Attack the man with the sword, he told the spirit. And as the executioner glanced at where the priest had fallen, Marek charged.

Thirty yards was a short distance when running in such an athletic body. Even so, the three spirits Marek awakened near the unwitting Sir Rhinweld ended the knight long before he closed the distance. The executioner’s assistant died last. The young man stared at the remnant that stabbed him in the throat, too frozen with fear to move an inch.

Marek slowed and then stopped dead in his tracks. “Well, that was… underwhelming,” he muttered, observing the carnage. “With the powers I have, I can’t really see how this Crucible could be considered challenging.” He winced, hoping Serin—whatever the boy was—couldn’t hear him. He didn’t want to curse his luck.

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Still, Marek was dumbfounded by the efficacy of his powers. I haven’t even seen the extent of what I can do. This is only a sample of a Soul Knight’s potential Abilities. What Level do I need to be to unlock them? Is there a particular order, like some Classes have? Tiers of power?

Marek sighed and let his frustration go. It didn’t serve him in this place.

All had fallen silent in the courtyard. The four spirits he’d claimed stared with glowing eyes, awaiting their orders. He paused then, aware his next decisions would prove crucial. “Okay, might as well thin out the crowd,” he thought aloud. “Not all of these look particularly useful in a fight.” Marek drained the assistant first, his soul drifting out from the fresh body. The young man wasn’t as weak as the spirit back in the dungeon, but he was nearly as unskilled.

Scanning the crowd of spirits, Marek found four more that were smaller than the rest. On closer inspection, two were more boys than men. The others were elderly, judging by their curved backs and drooping faces, though little enough remained of the ghostly flesh to judge with certainty.

He was left with twelve minions, all more or less capable of combat, counting the executioner. Five, along with the mace wielder, would be nasty opponents. They had the feel of thugs or bandits. Their souls had a tarnished feel to them. They’d been brutal men.

The executioner turned out to be quite the opposite. As he awakened the big man’s soul, Marek became distinctly aware of the skill the knight had once had. This was a capable spirit, drilled and disciplined by fine masters of sword, spear, and javelin. And unlike the rabble, his soul felt… well, noble. Several others in the group gave off a degree of goodness, as it were, but to far less a degree.

Smiling to himself, Marek whispered under his breath, “Time to test out another Spell, I suppose. What will become of you, Rhinweld? Will you live up to your title?” Elevate Champion turned out to be an incredibly costly Spell to cast. He’d known as much before casting it but was still surprised when nearly all of his newly acquired resources drained away.

Despite this sacrifice, Marek was impressed by the results. Sir Rhinweld grew in stature, like the three warriors in the Soul Singer’s dream sequence. The ethereal sword he held grew brighter and more distinct. Through his link, Marek marveled at the increase in potential. This minion was incredible. When the Spell completed, words appeared in Marek’s mind, labeling the executioner as Sir Rhinweld: Minor Champion.

“Minor? Principalities, I wonder if I could elevate him again? And how many tiers of power are there?”

Marek sighed, wishing his strange guide had accompanied him on this quest. His thoughts were interrupted when he picked up on the sound of boots treading across stone in the distance. Two alleys opened up on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Marek cursed under his breath and commanded his flock of ghosties to line the wall behind the stage. Then he jogged on the balls of his feet toward the first alley. Nothing but debris could be seen that way. When he peered around the second corner, however, his eyes landed on a troop of soldiers marching in formation. Ten strong at least, and fully armed. Thankfully, they were further than he’d feared, the echoes of stomping boots carrying far due to the stark walls. He had time—only a little, but it was better than nothing.

Backtracking, Marek scrambled to come up with a plan. He had thirty seconds to prepare for a serious fight. And even though several of his spirits were strong, he feared the well-trained and armed soldiers could outmatch them. In a fair fight, he amended. And there’s no rules that say we have to do this on even footing.

Hopeful, Marek tried commanding one of the spirits to enter the stone wall. It comically pressed itself against the stone obediently but couldn’t enter. Damn, probably because Command Spirit gives them tangible bodies. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to kill or be killed.

Abandoning the idea, his eyes fell on the stage. Standing only four feet off the ground, and spanning twenty feet across, the shadows beneath were the only cover available. It certainly wasn’t a dignified plan, but his long illness had cured him of that need long ago. Marek gave his squadron of ghosts their orders, drained two more of the creatures, and walked back to the alley.

The soldiers were closer now, marching at a quick pace. His time had run out. Steeling his nerves, Marek stepped out to block their way and brandished the four feet of glimmering steel he’d borrowed from the late Sir Rhinweld.

Predictably, the troop halted at once. Their leader, a man distinguished by the red plume jutting up from his helm, shouted, “Halt! Who goes there?”

Marek nearly sighed in exasperation. “Who wrote this script?” So far, everyone he’d encountered spoke like they were characters in a fable. Figuring he was at the very least well versed in such nonsense, he shouted a fitting response. “It is I, the great and terrible Remnant Mage. I’ve come to kill you all!”

Then he retreated into the courtyard, cackling as the soldiers gave chase.