“Pass the curds!” Petar shouted over the din, reaching with grubby hands. Marek, long past overwhelmed, handed the child the requested dish. At ten years of age, he was already as troublesome as the rest of the Strongtower offspring and completely bereft of shame.

Nira, the Strongtower matriarch, snatched the plate from the menace’s hands and smacked him on the back of the head. “Look at them fingers! Off with you, Petar Strongtower! Go and scrub up proper now!”

This amused young Quentin. He was the youngest of the brood at seven, and round in the belly and cheeks. He cackled in delight, bouncing beside Marek as he kicked his feet rhythmically beneath his chair.

Mags winked at her friend but didn’t comment. With the leg of a chicken in one hand, a wooden cup filled with mead in the other, she was content—and having grown up in this madness, well used to it, a resilience Marek had never acquired.

“Aye! And who goes about shouting for curds anyway?” Liam added. “Sounds a bit sideways, doesn’t it?” Despite his weak jibe, the man held his hand out before Nira and shifted the tone of his voice to sound as obnoxiously polite as possible. “Mother dear, mayhap will you lend the cheese curds to a starving youngster like myself? Promise I won’t eat ‘em all.”

Nira snorted and rolled her eyes. “Twenty-four, Liam, and still not married. You’re not a youngster anymore. You’re tardy.”

Fingers steepled at the head of the table, Nolan said, “How did we raise such pagans, Nira? Didn’t we instruct them about the six Principalities? You’ll have to forgive us, Mr. Theeras. I’d like to say us Strongtowers aren’t usually like this, but I’d be lying. Judgment knows I won’t be caught in that sin.”

“Ew!” Mags complained. “I hate it when you use his last name like that. His name is Marek; don’t be fancy!”

Earning the disgust of his only daughter, Nolan laughed heartily and resumed his meal. Nira frowned at her husband, scowl fierce enough to kill a bear. “She’s right, ya know? Fancy is a coat that doesn’t fit you. And quit spinning yarns, Husband—you raised a pack of pagans ‘cause we are pagans!”

“Oh, and praise the Old Gods for that,” Mags muttered under her breath between bites.

Marek ate in relative silence. The food was good and the company better, but the Strongtowers were cheeky this night and he never relished being the center of attention on such occasions. Eating with Mags’ family came with a degree of chaos he’d long ago accepted. Sometimes, when the oldest child Jonai was in town, it would become so loud that Marek would ask Nira for cotton balls to stuff in his ears.

From oldest to youngest, the surviving children of Nira and Nolan Strongtower were named Jonai, Kylum, Liam, Marigold, Ollin, Petar, and Quentin. The aging couple liked to joke that they’d stopped at Q because, after the impracticality of the letter, they’d simply run out of ideas for names. And when someone wondered aloud why they’d skipped N, Nira would whisper a prayer to The Mother and Nolan would shake his head and answer gravely, With a Nira and a Nolan, shouldn’t’a named the lad Nyan. Our fault, through and through. Their boy had drowned long ago, yet the family still bore the scar. Marek couldn’t help but respect the honesty of their grief. Some people tried to hide their wounds, but the Strongtowers kept their hearts on their sleeves.

As Marek scanned the room, his eyes landed on the plate positioned to Nira’s left at the end of the table, laden with a small portion of meat, potatoes, and greens. Nyan was always with the Strongtowers. And Marek suspected he would be till Nolan and Nira passed.

“You gonna eat that or just stare at how it rests on your fork?” Mags asked, nudging him from his reverie.

He tried to recover the mask he’d worn all day, but his friend knew him too well. They’d spent enough time together that she knew his quirks and habits through and through. Her mischievous smile slipped. Then, in a quieter voice, she asked, “You okay?”

Marek nodded and stuffed the food in his mouth, trying to smile convincingly. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired.”

Mags chewed her lip briefly, Ardean gray eyes searching his face. “Liar,” she said, quiet enough to keep the comment private. “Feeling sickly again? Or is it Mirrin?”

He laughed bitterly, not surprised she’d narrowed in on his predicament so quickly. “I’ll tell you tomorrow. Promise. Let’s just enjoy the food for now.”

Holding his gaze a little longer, she broke the tension by bouncing the corner of her lip twice. Crossing her eyes briefly, she clicked her tongue. “Fine, but no brooding secrets, Mister. You’ll tell me tomorrow or I’ll pull it out by force.”

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The rest of the night passed pleasantly enough. Nira kept the hearth stoked to blazing on nights when any of her eldest children were present. Seconds and sweets were shoveled onto every plate until even stout Liam refused another bite. Only then was Marek allowed to take his leave.

He ducked out into the chill night, and the chatter died as the door closed. Then he was alone. Mist was beginning to cling to the edges of the buildings in Northshore. And though a few taverns remained well in the swing of things, much of the neighborhood had gone quiet. Soon after heading on his way, the weight of his uncle’s crisis pressed down on him harder than ever. The optimism he’d manufactured earlier in the day felt trite now. Impractical. How can Mags and I succeed in finding medicines in the wild when every herbalist in Misthearth will be doing the same? It’s no less a dream than catching that legendary fish.

His friend was resourceful. Aside from her work at the tannery, Mags also took short forays into the nearby woods to collect reagents for Tilda. She could identify a variety of native herbs, and even a few types of mushrooms—yet if the hills had already been stripped of the rare resources, what could they hope to find?

Marek’s anxiety wrestled with his fatigue. Only once had he used Intuit four times in a single day. That was two years ago, after increasing his Intelligence Attribute. He’d hoped to gain enough mana to pull off the feat, but in the end, he’d spent the entire following day in bed with chills and a headache.

“Feel okay now, though,” he muttered to himself. “I’ll be damned. Maybe I should skip my medicine more often.”

Throwing caution to the wind, he formed a query. What would happen if Mags and I traveled to the mountains on our own to collect medicinal herbs?

The vision flooded his mind. Marek watched a version of himself tripping over a rock, badly spraining an ankle. Their travel afterward was slowed. Snow and rain and hail assaulted them as they traveled and tried to sleep at night. Rations spoiled and began to run out. Then finally, a troop of kobolds ambushed the pair, exploding from the forest with flint-tipped spears and bows. Marek stopped the Skill before the inevitable gruesome end came.

The predictions were frustrating, but none were truly a surprise. He was a man of twenty, and Mags a woman of twenty-two, yet despite their maturity, neither could survive the trip without significant investment and support. Mags had drilled with the army, had traveled south for her training at the age of seventeen. Hells, she’d even completed it and been sent north on Initiation. Her field assignment had sent her straight to the northern border, where Ardea abutted Shirgrim. There, she’d skirmished with kobolds on two separate occasions.

Mags was tough. She’d survived and carried her own weight during the action. She’d been supported by leaders classed as Fighters, Mages, and Rangers, though. Marek couldn’t back the woman up, not even if he was healthy and strong. Unlike Mags, he’d unlocked a Class, yet he was a simple crafter, not a warrior. Not even a woodsman.

The young man shivered. The cold seeped through his clothes, and he wrapped his cloak tighter around his neck, glancing to the east. A quarter-mile in that direction, he’d find Mason’s Bridge. That was the quickest route home. No part of him looked forward to the talk he’d have with Mirrin, though. He sighed. The cold bit the back of his throat, and he coughed. His lungs sounded rough. No way around it—he’d need to take his medicine tonight.

Pragmatism pressed on his shoulders. He knew he should go home, but pride bucked within him. Seeking the only alternative route he knew, Marek bit his lip and turned westward. He picked up his pace, walking in long strides and then jogging. He traveled to the edge of town, where a path veered south again and looped back toward Mirrin’s cabin. Abandoning the path altogether, he jogged up the hillside, not stopping till he came to the ancient stone wall that protected Misthearth to this day.

Marek slowed to a walk, unsure of why he’d come here. Full of rage and fear and a persistent grief at being so incapable of mending his life, the young man wanted nothing more than to scream into the night. Only the knowledge that he’d likely fall into a coughing fit stopped him. “Can’t even shout like a proper man,” he said bitterly. “Principalities above, what am I supposed to do?”

His heart ignited with rage. Uncaring, he craned back his head and let out his frustration, screaming into the night. The sound he produced was respectable, but no amount of pride could prevent the coughing fit that came. As he’d guessed, Marek found himself doubled over and clutching his ribs. Lungs rattling, he hacked until his vision swam before the fit finally abated.

“Damn fool… Only thing I’ll find out here is a cold,” he chastised himself, sitting and leaning his back against the cold stone to catch his breath. “Well, suppose there is the view.”

The moon shone bright above, illuminating the rolling downs leading to Misthearth. Beyond, the amber lights of town speckled the horizon, a pleasant sight. Marek’s eyes were drawn to the countless barrows. Covered in grass, they appeared mundane. Long ago, many Ardeans had chosen to be buried near the place of their death. Mags had told him why once. Rhiley, the war goddess many called The Hero, had ascended to the heavens after sacrificing her life to save a village. Her last words had been a request to be buried near the wall she’d given her life defending so that her spirit could guard for eternity.

Rhiley’s followers took the same burial rites.

Marek took them in, as he’d done many times before. In his youth, he’d thought they were mere hills. Armed with knowledge, however, Marek couldn’t help but see the barrows for what they were: the graves of many thousands. The dead were all around, and the Sigilist’s nephew felt their presence more distinctly than ever before.

Goosebumps rose on Marek’s forearms, and a chill rippled up his spine. Senses sharpening, he focused on a strange sound. It was faint at first, but distinct. Clicking, like dry bone tapping against stone.