The following days passed in a blur. Unsurprisingly, Marek caught a cold. He shivered and dozed most of the first day, waking in starts when confronted with images of spirits and a black-fanged monster.

He recovered quicker than normal. A typical cold would put him down for a week or more, sometimes a month. Yet even in the throes of sickness and fatigue from the exertion of his trip to the wall, Marek felt a change overtaking his body. The Spirit Core thrumming in his chest gave him strength. Though he lacked the courage to examine it more closely, he knew for certain it far outstripped his Mana Core.

Mirrin remained distant. The old man’s eyes were haunted. Marek could only imagine how much it had cost his uncle to confess everything, to admit to the crime he’d committed while trying to save Marek. He appreciated the space. Though he’d already forgiven the man, it wasn’t easy to return to normal life after hearing your closest friend and relative had been poisoning you for years.

And the more Marek thought about it, the more he realized “normal life” would never be the same again. Like it or not, he was a Remnant Mage. Before the Crucible, the title had meant little to Marek. One of the many fables that spread from table to table in a pub late at night. Some were true, others not. In a place as humble as Misthearth, few could confirm these tales.

To distract himself, Marek read through several texts he’d borrowed from Rauld the previous week. His focus sharpened as he pushed himself harder. On the second day of study, he finished the stack of books. Shortly after, having used the Skill nine times in a row, Marek had a breakthrough. A warm tingle of energy, beginning in his Core and rippling outward, informed him he’d reached Level 9 of his Sigilist Class. Normally, such an occurrence would’ve been celebrated, yet Marek was in no mood to do so.

Without thinking, he nearly deposited his free Attribute Point into Intelligence. No, better hold off. I doubt my mana pool will fully recover, but something is changing. I’d rather wait to invest the point in another Attribute more lacking. Principalities know I’ve got room for growth. He thought of Serin’s harsh criticism, mocking him for his low Strength, Dexterity, and Constitution. With a score of 10, his Charisma was fine as it was. It wasn’t precisely average; a score of 10 denoted an Attribute of an average person if they’d been fed well and remained in peak health. Many never actualized such potential. They’d been born sickly, suffered disease or some great injury. Even the misfortunate of enduring a few seasons of scarce food could blunt one’s growth.

Sick of his convalescence, and feeling guilty for his dour mood even in the face of an increase in Level, Marek forced himself out from under his blankets.

Stepping from his room, dressed and manicured, he thought to slip out without his uncle’s notice. The old man rose from his favorite chair and smiled at Marek. His uncle was trying to hide the pain, but having lived with Mirrin his entire life, it wasn’t hard to see what lay beneath the crooked grin. “Morning, Uncle.”

“Up and out of bed! And in less than a week! I’m impressed. Are you heading out on an errand? Or to spend a little time with Mags?”

Marek took his cloak from where it hung near the door. Slipping it on, he said, “Mostly to stretch my legs. I’ve a lot to think about, and walking always helps clear the fog.”

Mirrin nodded. “That it does. Uh…” Smile faltering, he cleared his throat. “I’ve told you already, but forgive me, Marek, I must repeat myself. Your new… powers—your Class, that is—it’s best you—”

“I won’t use them,” Marek cut in. “I promise. I’m not eager to learn what madness feels like.”

Mirrin laughed. It sounded hollow and tired. “Very well. I’ll be in the shop when you come home. Good luck on your thinking, boy.”

Marek was true to his word. He walked through the town of Misthearth, taking every back street he knew, avoiding his friends and neighbors. As he strolled along, he honed the fledgling plan he’d been forming for the last few days. Marek couldn’t stay here long. He needed to leave on a grand adventure. Truly, there was no way around the matter. For himself and his uncle’s sake, the open road called to him.

I’ll scour the hills near the border of Shirgrim. Surely up there I can find a few rare herbs. Even if it takes weeks, I’ll collect what Mirrin needs, then return.

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He thought again of Mags. His best friend was twice the woodsman he was, yet given the curse he bore, he refused to involve anyone else. More than likely, I’ll just get her killed, he thought, before the image of a tower of green flame filled his mind. He stopped in the middle of the road, stomach twisting into a knot. It took a force of will to push the memory of the dream sequence—and the knowledge of the ending of his unknown parents—out of his mind.

Once I secure the herbs, I’ll give them to Tilda to care for the man and excuse myself from society. Marek nodded, as if his thought were now an oath declared to the Six themselves. And perhaps it was. He wasn’t a fool. Marek didn’t expect to complete the journey, yet try he would. His quest would be singular. Find and unmask the secrets of his ancestral Class… or die of madness alone in the mountains. Marek chuckled bitterly. Solid plan. But I can’t survive in the woods with just the cloak on my back. I’ll need proper equipment. I only hope it doesn’t cost too much.

With hopes of leaving the following week, Marek’s stride increased as his meandering found purpose. In ten minutes, he’d crossed to Northshore and found his destination. Leaping up onto the porch of The Scorched Beetle, Marek entered to find Tivra Chopane stacking clean mugs onto the shelf above the bar. The only notable Basari in town, the woman was hard to miss. The whites of her eyes stood out starkly against her dark skin. A few in town were crude and called her ugly because she differed so greatly from the fair Ardeans. Marek disagreed. Tivra’s skin was the color of steeped tea with a drop of milk. A good woman by all standards, she’d worked long and hard for half a lifetime without much help. The labor showed in the deep creases at the corners of her eyes and the calluses on her hands. Even so, Marek thought she was pretty.

“What in the Unbound Realm are you doing here this early?” she asked sharply. “It can’t be your uncle, or you’d have gone to Tilda. Has Tenacity gotten his grip on you at last, Marek? Or have you simply lost your wits like me?”

Marek was grateful the woman had spoken without looking directly at him. Her mention of Tenacity caught him off guard, and his casual veneer faltered. He reminded himself that, logically speaking, Tivra couldn’t have known he’d descended from the man who became Tenacity. It was just a coincidence. She’d only meant to tease him for what she assumed was a strong work ethic.

Shoving aside his discomfort, Marek dropped his coin purse on the counter. “I’m just crazy like you,” he said, then tilted his head to one side. “This is a strange request, but I am in need of a lot more of this. Work in the shop is steady, and I’ve been able to save up a bit over the years. Something’s come up, though, and I’m afraid I need more silver.”

Tivra laughed warmly, brows rising in incredulity. “You and me both, young man! Why do you think I work through both days of Restraint every weekend? More to the point, why are you telling me about your little problem? I have a hundred of my own. You don’t hear me telling you about the leak in the roof or how my husband’s feet smell like curdled milk!”

Marek steeled himself. He hated asking for favors of any kind, even if it was minor. “Don’t worry—I’m not asking for a loan.”

“Good! I’m always willing to say no, but might as well save the trouble of even asking.”

He brushed her jest aside and barged ahead. “I’m not very strong. I’m reliable, though, and trustworthy. I have a few skills, like arithmetic, and my hand script is near to mastery as well. Do you have any work that needs doing, Tivra? Help with your ledgers, perhaps, or handling bills?”

“Really, Marek? Numbers? That’s what you offer?” The woman scoffed and shook her head.

Marek suppressed his disappointment and tried again, hoping to make a case for himself. “You’d be surprised! Before my uncle let me take over his ledger, he was wasting five silver a month by overpaying taxes. Also helped him organize his receipts.”

Tivra didn’t seem impressed. “I have a system that works, and it took me years to make it. I’ll be damned if some half-grown Sigilist will get his hands on my books. Sell your craft elsewhere. I don’t need it.”

“Correspondence, then,” Marek tried again. “If you have any official letters that need drafting, I’ll—”

“Take the no or move along. You’re ruining the only bit of peace I’ll have this morning. You should be paying me at this rate!”

Marek sighed, tapping his purse lightly as he thought. He had a few more ideas but Tivra had been at the top of his list. “Didn’t mean to bother you,” he said with a nod. “Anyhow, if you hear of any work that needs doing, I don’t mind getting dirty or working hard. Really, anything you can think of. ”

Tivra pushed the last mug into its place and spun to face him, hands propped on her bony hips. “You should have started with that one. The pigs, hens, and goats shit faster than I can clean. I usually give the task to Lim Tavins to cover his night of drinking. He can go without for a day, though. I’ll give you one silver to tidy all three pens.”

Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Marek put on a brave face. “I don’t mind the muck. I’ll do it. Any way you can pay a little more?”

“I knew you’d ask as much,” Tivra said with a frown. Her dark eyes searched his. The woman’s keen mind whirred behind a veiled expression. “I’ll give you a second silver if you bag the manure and stack it near the gate. A few farmers come by on the regular to pick it up, and they pay well enough to cover the cost.”

Marek smiled, proud he’d managed the small victory. “Thank you, Tivra. You won’t regret it. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to see it done.”

Tivra scoffed and turned her back on him to see to another task. “Don’t shout my praises till you see the piles of shit waiting back there! Good luck, little Sigilist! You’ll need it!”