Principalities! Mirrin would die on the spot if he could see me now, Marek thought as he ran from the soldiers, eyes bright and focused. Given more context, though, Marek fancied his uncle might be proud.

Marek shot across the courtyard, sword clutched awkwardly in his hands. He was grateful no crossbowmen were among the guards. That would have put a notch in his plans. As it was, unencumbered by armor or any real weapons, he easily outpaced his pursuers. He even had to check his speed toward the end of the foot race so the men weren’t too far behind.

“Stop at once!” the leader shouted. “The priests will hang you, Mage!”

They were nearly where he needed them. Marek’s heart pounded in his chest, and he feared the soldiers might stop and ruin his ambush. His fears weren’t warranted, however. These imaginary men, part of a Crucible held within his own mind, hadn’t been given much cunning. Perhaps he’d been right. They might simply be following some prewritten script; he didn’t know. All that mattered was that the soldiers followed him closely as he passed by the execution stage.

Now! he screamed mentally. Ghostly hands thrust out from under the wooden scaffolding, catching hold of ankles and legs. The unlucky soldiers closest to the stage fell hard, shields battering the backs of their companions and toppling them as well. A once orderly formation fell into disarray. Six of the men were down in a blink, one killed as he was dragged under the stage and silenced with a ghostly blade.

Marek’s spirits swarmed out from their hiding place to finish the bloody work. His champion shoved through the mess of limbs and spears, eager for a bit of the action. Unsurprisingly, Rhinweld was a terror. His longsword beheaded two soldiers in seconds flat, and he pushed two others back, their spears flicking out defensively as the champion pursued them.

Marek noted that the fight would soon be over. No doubt, the Crucible only cared that he defeated his enemies, not how he did so. Yet he loathed the idea of being completely left out of the action twice in a row. It just felt wrong somehow. So he ran at the leader, greatsword in hand. The officer blinked at the slaughter behind him and then at Marek charging. Finding an admirable dose of courage, the leader shifted his weight and thrust his long spear at Marek’s belly. At the last moment, a flash of blue filled his eyes. The incoming weapon doubled in speed.

Damn, a Skill! Marek thought, dodging to one side. The man’s attack had been lightning quick, though. The steel spearpoint bit into Marek’s side, grazing his ribs. Pain shot down his right leg and up into his armpit, the spear cutting all the way to the bone. Marek cursed his negligence. He’d somehow forgotten the use of Skills and Spells. So far, his opposition had been cut down well before they had a chance to use any Abilities. This fight would be different.

Teeth bared in pain, Marek held his stance. Briefly, he considered using Ravening Flare, but the Spell would drain valuable resources. Besides, he’d chosen to fight this man for the chance to gain familiarity in armed combat, not roast his enemy with a flick of the hand. Leaping back, he surveyed the scene. His spirits were finishing the soldiers, and even as he looked, Sir Rhinweld stabbed one of his foes through the belly, kicking the man’s body off his blade so it crashed into another victim.

Clearly, the battle was his.

Deciding to make use of the experience, Marek held to his decision to fight the leader alone. Stay close, he commanded his forces. Kill him if I’m badly injured.

There was no reason to take more risk than was absolutely necessary. Marek felt certain the hardest of this challenge was yet to come. He wanted to wet his blade, to test his abilities and the strength of his body. For all the time he’d spent playing soldier with Mags, they’d all been experienced in an immature and feeble body. He needed to understand how far he could push himself before great challenges came.

The officer pursued. His spear flicked out like the tongue of a snake, never overcommitting and always harassing Marek. The tactic was effective.

Marek evaded three more thrusts and took another blow to his thigh before he decided to invest some of his ether in a little protection. Spirit Armor manifested in a flash of light, plates of dimly glowing armor covering every part of his body in seconds. The man attacking him gaped, spear slowing for an instant as he took in the transformation.

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Regardless of what his opponent saw, Marek decided the Ability was worthy of praise. His intuitive knowledge told him he could invest more of his power and continue to bolster his defenses. Even in its base form, however, Spirit Armor gave Marek a sense of invulnerability. Without the weight of carrying it, he was in essence covered head to toe in plate mail.

It was Marek’s turn to press the attack. He dashed in, sword point tilted forward and down to intercept the guard’s spear. Sure enough, the officer reacted with a thrust. Marek turned the spearpoint and lunged closer. He pivoted and slashed at the man’s leading leg, but his target backpedaled.

The contest then began in earnest. As Marek fought the leader, he thought of Mags, the one who’d taught him everything he knew of combat. She’d only been able to instill so much, given the limits of his frail body, yet already he was pushing himself beyond her training. The officer was as fine a sparring partner as he could have asked for, more skilled by far than Marek. Had he not conjured his armor, Marek would have fallen to countless small injuries. Each time the soldier landed a hit, the blade bounced off the invisible protection. A tiny thread of his ether drained as well as it worked to repair the damage. Regardless, it wouldn’t hold much longer. Marek guessed that if the leader used another Skill, it might be strong enough to shatter one of the plates.

He waited, trading blows with the man, until a blue flash colored the officer’s gaze. Now, he told himself, stepping into the attack. Marek twisted his body, swinging his sword in a two-handed slash. The spear pounded into the side of his armor, and sure enough, it gave way. Searing pain lit up the front of his body, the spear carving a gash across the muscles of his chest. He took the injury in stride. His tactic had paid off. Momentum carried the officer forward, his arms extended, committed to the thrust. Marek’s slash completed its arc at the perfect time.

The officer found the limitations of his own defenses then. The chainmail shirt the man wore held up admirably, mostly blunting the attack, yet the man’s ribcage paid the price beneath the steel mesh. Bones cracked under the punishment the massive blade doled out. His opponent staggered to the side, left arm falling limp, and the spear he held sagged.

Marek didn’t wait to see the man recover. He drew back his sword and thrust, stabbing cleanly through the officer’s chest. More a display of office than a practical weapon, the executioner’s sword was a clumsy instrument. In Marek’s strong hands, it was also deadly.

The man’s face paled. Eyes wide, he opened his mouth. Only a gurgle came out. He died in seconds flat, heart likely cleaved in two. Marek tried to copy what Rhinweld had done by stomping his foot on the man’s chest. He failed to remove his sword with half as much grace, but after a few yanks he pulled it free.

Marek panted. Sweat dripped from his brow, and blood pattered to the stone paving. He surveyed the aftermath of the battle and was pleased with the results. A quick count told him only two of his minions had been killed. The rest awaited his command. More importantly, a host of newcomers drifted about the courtyard aimlessly. Each of the fallen soldiers’ souls was valuable, not as potent as the knight’s but capable and strong.

“Good,” he said after catching his breath. “If things keep ramping up like this, I’ll need all the help I can get.”

He went to work, gathering his resources and building a larger force of spirit fighters. When he’d finished prioritizing his potential allies, Marek drained several to fill his reserves. In total, he commanded seventeen fighters, ten common soldiers, five of his previous warriors, and two heavy hitters. Sir Rhinweld was joined by a second imposing figure known as Officer in Red: Minor Champion.

Marek eyed the plumed spirit doubtfully. “Don’t think I could best you like this,” he said as he appraised the officer’s increased stature. “Not without using more of my Abilities. Still, can’t help but feel sad. You weren’t exactly given honor with that name of yours.”

The ghost stared blankly back at Marek, devoid of intelligence.

Marek sighed. “Oh, well. Let’s get on with it, shall we, Officer in Red?” He issued mental commands, and his minions wheeled round and shambled toward the alley the soldiers had come from.

Anxiety and excitement boiled behind the partition in his mind, ever present but subdued. Marek was grateful. He didn’t have need of his emotions at the moment. He only needed to gain power. He needed to complete the Crucible. So he marched through the castle grounds, host in tow. Occasionally, what appeared to be a common villager would have the misfortune of greeting the fell company. Marek acted pragmatically. He slaughtered the innocent and claimed their souls, topping up his Core to near bursting by the time he entered what could only be the end of his trial.

The energy would be sorely needed, he thought, as he took in the enemy. Rank upon rank of soldiers stood guard on the opposite side of a bridge. Behind them, a handful of priests worked on the steps leading up to a small stone chapel.

Marek didn’t know what he’d come across, but he suspected he’d soon find out.