Marek followed close behind his uncle, observing him warily. Mirrin was an eccentric man. Not only were his Casteran culture deeply engrained in his mannerisms, speech, and customs, but the old Sigilist had a flare for the dramatic and the absurd. Quick to laugh and quick to anger, Mirrin embodied the archetype of the absent-minded master perfectly.

Given how varied his moods were, to see the man subdued and solemn made Marek wary. What can he have possibly held back? he thought. Is he going to tell me he’s the King of Casteras? Or that we’re related to kobolds?

Marek kept his anxieties to himself, knowing Mirrin would open up in due time. Soon, the two would be apart for the first time in a long time, the last instance being when Mirrin had traveled north to Swiftwall some years back. Marek would miss the old man dearly.

Heading to the back of the workshop, Mirrin opened one of the large, dusty chests tucked beneath a workbench. The old man muttered to himself, the words too muted for Marek to catch, and pulled out a polished wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. Eyes downcast, he set the box on a table before Marek and pointed to a stool. “Sit, Nephew, and open it.”

Marek did just that. His heart pounded as he thumbed open the silver clasps one at a time. Opening it, he let out a confused, “Huh… Why are you showing me this?”

“First good set I commissioned,” Mirrin explained. “These are elementary at best, but they’re well crafted. These tools served me for over five years until I upgraded and expanded. A blacksmith in Tolencia made them. Believe it or not, cost me twenty-three gold—a fortune at the time.”

“Twenty-three?” Marek shrieked. “That’s a fortune!”

“No, it isn’t,” his uncle said flatly.

Marek blinked in surprise, examining the tools more closely.

Mirrin cleared his throat and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “Recall the fundamentals, Marek. These are brands, used to sear a material in a quick but superficial manner. Sigilists rely on these for Imbue. One could utilize a brand for the more powerful Engrave Skill, but gravers would create a stronger connection between sigil and material.” Mirrin grasped one of the four carving tools. “Gravers have a ‘handle,’ which I’m holding, of course. This here is the ‘tang,’ and this the ‘side.’ The long section is called the ‘shaft,’ which leads to the ‘point.’ The little flat part here is known as the ‘face,’ and the underside we call the ‘belly.’”

“I… I remember,” Marek said confusedly. “Uncle, you taught me this when I was five years old. What are you on about?”

Mirrin sighed. “Humor me, boy. Now, as you may recall, gravers do the engraving. These two are flat gravers, one a wide and the other a small rib. The blunt ends lend flat gravers strength to withstand hard stone and metals. The round graver is used primarily on metals like copper or bronze as well as softer stone. And this”—he handed the third tool to Marek—“is a V-point. It’s good for wood, leather, flesh, and bone.”

Marek watched distantly as his lifelong companion lifted the soft-headed mallet from the box, continuing his dialogue. Mirrin’s voice became an undistinguishable drone. Marek observed the man, terrified not of what they discussed but what was being concealed. After the revelation of his father’s downfall, Marek couldn’t fathom what could be harder for Mirrin to say.

Then a fragment of information stuck out like a root along the pathways of his thoughts. Marek stumbled over it, eyes widening. He seized the box in both hands and locked eyes with Mirrin, who stared back fearfully. “Hold on!” he said, interrupting Mirrin’s diatribe. “Did you say flesh and bone?”

Mirrin let out a miserable sound, somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. The old man released the box into Marek’s grip and stepped away. “Aye, I did. I need you to understand the extent of my sacrifice. I need you to fear the King as I do. He’ll wield you like a cleaver against all of the Coherent Realm. Rumor claims a necromancer aids them already. Should a Remnant Mage and Death Mage fight united, none could stand against Casteras. The entire world would suffer.”

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“But how would they bind me?” Marek asked, wanting to deny the obstacle in his way. “They can’t force me to fight.”

Mirrin angrily hissed over his shoulder, “They damn well can! I haven’t a clue how, but there are hundreds of Classes in the Coherent Realm. I know little about most, but I knew Rorin! Your father was neither weak nor violent in nature. He was forced into submission, and rather than attempt to salvage his sanity, he slaughtered tens of thousands!”

Never in Marek’s life had he heard his uncle so bitter. He didn’t sound like the same man. The withered Sigilist fumbled at the bonds of his robes with trembling hands. Teeth clenched, the sinew of his jaw twitching, Mirrin exposed his pale chest. “Look upon my work! See the price I paid to refuse repeating my brother’s fate!”

Stunned, Marek stared at his uncle’s bare torso for the first time in his life. He’d always assumed it was the old man’s propriety that kept him fully dressed at all times, yet the gruesome sight before him told of a different story.

Five sigils stood in stark relief on Mirrin’s sternum. Three down the center, one to either side. The old scars were puckered and ugly.

“You know the names of these marks, but I will ask you to memorize their placement and sequence,” Mirrin said. “You will go to Shirgrim, damn you, and you’ll forge the ironwood staff. This, I pray you can achieve. Yet if you fail…” He blinked several times, lips pinching tightly. “And your mind begins to falter, you have but two choices. End yourself in isolation so that no one else will suffer… or Imbue your body as I have, with the Mark of Tenedor.”

Marek gaped. He tried twice to force words from his mouth. Only when he swallowed and averted his eyes could he manage the task. “The sigils,” he muttered weakly. “Those are the cause of your illness.”

“Just so. And may Prudence herself guide your hand to do likewise should the need arise.”

Marek’s defiance faltered at last. “I’m sorry. I should have trusted your word. And… I’m sorry for how you’ve suffered.”

Mirrin shrugged off the sympathy. Tapping the centermost scar, the sigil of Source—a sigil of power—he said, “Each marks not only my flesh but the bone beneath. I studied dark arts to prevent the enemy from controlling me. I’ll be damned if I let you throw away my sacrifice.”

The Sigilist closed his garment, then lifted his chin proudly and held out his hands. “Give me the box again. Hand it over.”

Marek did so.

Mirrin’s nostrils flared in what might have been disgust. His fingers slid along the bottom of the toolbox, finding levers Marek hadn’t noticed at first. A click sounded, then a drawer popped out from the stained wood. Within was a book the size of a prayer bible, small enough to fit in one’s pocket. Mirrin took up the book gingerly and handed it to Marek. “Raikem’s Compendium of Corpus Sigilry,” he said gravely. “The only known manuscript on the forbidden arts of corpus and oseo sigilcraft. When you leave, you’ll take this with you. Always keep it hidden, and destroy it should your capture become inevitable.”

“Why?” Marek managed, disgust and intrigue both seizing his heart.

“So if you’re given no other choice, you may do as I have done. Tenedor was a butcher, a twisted Sigilist that sought to punish his fellow men. His mark was laid upon many in Ardea long ago, which is why corpus sigilry is forbidden to this day.” Mirrin snatched the manuscript from Marek’s grip and returned it to its hiding place. He showed Marek the two concealed levers. Finally, he closed the drawer and stared into Marek’s eyes. “Osteo sigils are an abomination. You know me, Marek. I am a man of tradition. I pray first to Logic and then Restraint, every morning I wake. Yet fearing I might inherit the Class, fearing the madness and the possibility of being used as a weapon, I mastered terrible magic in order to ruin my body. I would have easily ascended to Artisan, perhaps even risen high enough to forge my own Unique Class.”

Marek gulped as his uncle scrambled close.

Clutching the young man’s robes, Mirrin rasped, “Do not take this curse lightly, nor the risk the Casteran king represents, my sweet, sweet Marek. You were not born to carry out his butchery.”

“I understand,” Marek replied, and truly he did. He’d been rocked to his core yet again. So much about Mirrin made sense now, and so much of it was heartbreaking. “Should I study the compendium, then? In case I…”

Mirrin shook his head. “First you must reach Level 10 in Sigilist. Your Mana Core should be expanding, though it might take time. Focus on leveling any spare moment you can, Marek. Use Intuit in novel and challenging ways. Hopefully, you can unlock Imbue before you leave, if not soon after. And when you do, then, Marek, you’ll need to study the book.”