Marek’s sleep was anything but restful. No amount of exhaustion could dull his anxiety after his uncle’s telling. He was even tempted to use the numbing effects of the medicine, yet doing so would feel like a defeat he couldn’t stomach.

Though Mirrin wasn’t a true Seer, lacking the requisite Class, the old man nonetheless possessed an intuition even pragmatic Marek couldn’t deny. And over the years, he’d witnessed his uncle perform a true telling, a prediction of future events. Such things were known to happen.

The first of these was when Mirrin had told of the drowning of a child of Misthearth, which turned out to be one of Mags’ younger siblings. The boy had fallen from Westward Bridge and been unable to withstand the frigid waters long enough for help to arrive. Last night’s telling was much the same, if only in manner and tone. Uncle Mirrin’s voice had held the same creepy cadence that made Marek’s very Core tremble with certainty—an intuitive knowledge that what he was hearing was true.

What did all that mean, though? he wondered half the night. How am I to interpret any of that? Sage and a staff? A Remnant Mage and a monk at his side? It sounds like the plot of a romance novel! None of this half-wrought fable fit into Marek’s logical mind, and it disturbed him to his bones.

He did sleep a little. Yet all too soon, day arrived, and his habit-driven mind woke of its own accord.

Rising sore and groggy, Marek took consolation in his most sacred routine. He stoked the fire and filled the kettle to the brim. While he waited, Marek brushed his teeth. Hanging the clothes he’d worn the previous day on a line in his room, he took out a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt. He made his way back to the stove, where he yawned and stretched until the water boiled.

“Two cups of tea and just enough water for a wash,” he said, methodically filling his and Mirrin’s favorite mugs to the brim. Next he washed in his basin, dressed, and pulled on his boots. Only then did he finally feel ready for the day.

He took his morning tea quickly, then joined his uncle in the workshop attached to the backside of their home. It was small—only a single room with a private entrance—yet within were all the materials needed for sigil crafting.

Mirrin smiled up at Marek, groggy in the eyes as he sipped the Springdown Tea they both enjoyed. “Morning, Nephew. Finished with your routine already?” Before Marek could answer, Mirrin added, “Sorry about my fit. I felt it coming on all afternoon, and sometimes there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“It’s okay,” Marek replied, taking in his uncle’s face and searching for any sign the old man remembered his telling. “Can’t keep the sun from rising, am I right?”

His uncle nodded in agreement, then patted the stool beside him. “Right you are, boy. Now come and sit. I have a project you might be interested in—if you have the juice to spare, that is.”

“I can manage,” Marek said, tasting his own tea and surveying the charcoal sketch in Mirrin’s hand. “This for an oven?” he asked, brow furrowed. “Or a forge, maybe? No, it wouldn’t be hot enough. And yet… it’s way too advanced to be an enchantment for some rich Southshore wife. Danick order this?”

Mirrin cackled in delight. “Clever boy! There are three other bakers in town, though… How’d you know it was Danick?”

“Well, the others all think you’re raving mad, for one,” Marek said truthfully. “Also, Danick’s been loyal to you for years.”

“A clever boy, but too honest for his own good,” Mirrin said in mock disapproval.

“I’ll be twenty-one in a few months, Uncle. When are you going to stop calling me boy?”

“As soon as you can grow a real beard; that’s when,” Mirrin said, nudging Marek with his elbow playfully. “Don’t pester me, damn it. Read the design and tell me if it’ll work or not. Haven’t got all day.”

Marek scoffed but held his tongue. Quieting his mind, he took in the “problem” before him. A rectangle form filled the parchment, the letters Tu scratched in the corner. Tuvium was one of Mirrin’s favorite metals due to its high mana conductivity. It also had high mana durability, which made it superior to other common metals like copper.

From right to left, the three Command Sigils were Accumulate, Circulate, and Stability. Acting as Binding Sigils, two symbols for Joining sat between the three. At the bottom of the diagram lay a single Guiding Sigil. “Heat makes sense, but why not Fire? Might’ve been more effective, given that’s the source of the heat.”

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“Mmm, perhaps, but from my experience, Fire is a sigil best used for combat. Too reactive. Last thing we want is to burn down half the town. Now quit dallying, boy. Do your thing.”

Marek nodded, happy to oblige. He closed his eyes and pictured the sigil array in his head, taking into account what he knew about tuvium, the selected sigils, and ovens. Before activating his Ability, Marek paused. “Tell me more about Danick’s oven? A single fire beneath or multiple? How much volume inside? And where will you place the array?”

His uncle groaned dramatically. “I swear, you’re as spontaneous as a mule. Once upon a time, I regretted not choosing Intuit as my Novice Skill, but having you in my life cured that nonsense long ago. I’ll take a hasty Imbue any day if it means getting to the point.”

Marek waited patiently.

“Two burners beneath,” Mirrin grumbled. “Coal as a fuel source. Not a blasted clue about the volume, but he bakes twenty loaves at a time with room to spare. As for the placement, I was thinking either the top, directly in the center, or else the back wall.”

The young man nodded. He took in the new information and prompted his Skill.

Immediately, his mind went to work. The vision came, and he found his uncle’s work was partially successful. The oven would become more efficient and use less coal, but the imaginary bread cooked faster on the top racks.

He repeated the exercise with Mirrin’s alternative placement, the array at the back of the stove, and found again an uneven bake. “The array is focusing the heat near itself. Danick would have to rotate the loaves to make it work.”

“Well that’s useless,” Mirrin grumbled.

“A little. But why not place it in the middle? Could you suspend the array from a rod in the very center?”

Mirrin muttered under his breath, dragging his fingers through his wispy white beard.

Marek studied the man briefly. Mirrin’s skin was darker than his own, yet both men had the same bronze tones of Casteran blood. Marek’s had been lightened a little—his mother’s influence. She, if Uncle Mirrin could be believed, had come from Ardean stock.

“I didn’t want to go that route, but I believe you’re right. Still, Danick won’t want to configure the oven around a central point. That gives him less space to work with.”

More muttering, and then Mirrin sat up straight. “I’ve got it! If I add a fourth Command Sigil—Disperse, for example—I can ensure an even bake. Thoughts?”

Marek narrowed his eyes. “Tuvium is too conductive. You told me yourself that I should never use more than three Command Sigils when working with tuvium.”

Mirrin waved his hands as if batting away a cloud of flies. “Stay with me a moment, will you? Do you remember that mercenary that came through a few years back? The one with a very large bag full of useless ore?”

Marek could easily recall the mercenary, face covered in scars and spite, angry upon hearing the news that the “exquisite ore” he’d secured in Northern Shirgrim would make for lousy armor. It was too funny to forget. “The tantalum bars!” Marek said, understanding his uncle’s idea instantly. “Too soft for armor, but capable of holding a larger array! Yeah, that would definitely work! And I’m sure old Kuro will be thrilled to get rid of some.”

Mirrin chuckled wickedly. “Go ahead and do your little mind trick again and tell me I’m wrong.”

Marek was tired from the night before, and he knew this third use would tax him dearly, yet he was invested at this point. And sure enough, Intuit predicted a flawless execution. Not only would the loaves cook evenly, but the expanded sigil array was even more fuel efficient than before.

The rest of the day went by in a blur of motion.

Marek bartered for the tantalum himself, securing enough for a few projects at minimal cost. After a light lunch, the two fell to the sigil craft, though Marek could take no direct actions in the making of the array. It was midafternoon when they finished. Together, uncle and nephew admired the shining tantalum plate. Overall, it was fine work, though Marek’s eye discovered a few small mistakes.

His uncle was getting old, or rather, the illness they shared had aged the Sigilist faster than nature intended. Uncle Mirrin shouldn’t have white hair, he reminded himself. Is that what I’m going to look like at forty-nine? Will I even live that long?

Mirrin giggled as he ducked out the door. “I’ll be back tonight! We’ll have a little celebration, just you and me!”

Marek walked to the window and watched his uncle go. Draped in Casteran robes, the Sigilist stood out like a jay among crows so deep in Ardea. As fastidious as Marek in his attire, Mirrin wore his native clothes with pride, regardless of how threadbare they’d become.

The thought pulled Marek’s eye to the faded curtains and the workbench nearly broken from overuse. Things had only been this bad a few times in Marek’s life, and he couldn’t help but feel it was his fault.

Placing a hand over his stomach, he whispered a curse he’d uttered far too many times to count. “Stupid weak Core. Why did I have to be born with a stunted mana pool? I could’ve helped Uncle retire by now. I could have…”

He caught himself, stopped that surge of negativity that inevitably followed such thoughts. Still, it was hard not to feel bitter. After unlocking the Sigilist Class at age twelve, a feat rarely heard of, he couldn’t help but be frustrated with his slow progress. Just two more, he told himself, a mantra at this point. When I reach Level 10, I can finally choose Imbue. I’ll be strong enough to cast it, even if only once a day.

Marek had invested nearly all of his gained Attribute Points into Intelligence, raising it to 14. He’d have pushed it higher had it not been for his health. Marek likely wouldn’t have lived had he not invested a little in Constitution and Strength.

“Can’t progress if I can’t draw breath,” he muttered, plucking up a thread of optimism.

A muffled voice called from outside the shop—a woman’s voice, he judged by the inflection. “Hello. I’ve come to speak with Mirrin.” The woman opened the door and peered inside, and Marek’s stomach dropped.

It was Tilda, the town Healer, someone who rarely brought good tidings.