Daunting as his journey might be, Marek still found his mood lifting as he returned home. The many stairs leading up to the house caused no cramps, no burning in his lungs. In fact, he didn’t even have to stop for a break. Not even once.

Marek reached his destination and stepped up onto the porch. Yet he paused there, hand stopping an inch before touching the weathered brass knob. The sun on his shoulders and the warm breeze tugging at his cloak were too pleasant to abandon quite so soon. He also wasn’t quite ready to tell his uncle the bad news.

Letting out a sigh that best expressed his bittersweet emotions, he sat on the stoop and hugged his knees to his chest. For the first time in ages, Marek was confronted by the incredible view. It’s not easy for people to see beauty, let alone appreciate it, when they live in near-constant pain. He saw everything clearly now, and it was breathtaking. “Judgment spurn me if today isn’t better than most,” he said, combing a strand of auburn hair from his eyes. “It won’t be easy leaving all this behind.”

Elevated above Misthearth, the view from his home was spectacular. Only Rauld in his high mage tower might claim to surpass it. Even so, Marek would choose this vantage point. One could view the plumes of illuminated mist rising from the base of the falls. Northshore and Southshore were both partially visible, as was the stone tower. From here, he could even distinguish the slight angle in which the tower leaned—two degrees, according to Rauld, a not insubstantial number when it comes to stacking stone on stone, the mage was fond of saying. Marek breathed it in for a time, allowed the moment to seep into his bones and congeal into what he hoped would be a lasting memory.

The moment did pass eventually, but Marek still hadn’t summoned the courage to face Mirrin and tell the old man Tilda’s news. Given the clarity of his thoughts and the freedom of time, his thoughts drifted inevitably to the mysterious Class he’d inherited. Remnant Mage—a strange name. I suppose the spirits of men can be considered remnant, yet why not call it Spirit Mage, then? And I wonder how similar my Abilities will be to a Death Mage’s. Another question struck Marek with the precision of a jeweler’s hammer. Wait, is Death Mage another inherited Class? Serin said the Class was the opposition of the Remnant Mage, but he didn’t explain much of anything. What I wouldn’t give for a long talk with him.

Marek shifted his focus to what he could study. Himself. He’d learned quite a bit about his inherited Class in the Crucible, yet he suspected his powers and how they functioned wouldn’t be the same as they had been during the trial. What more can I learn without tapping into my power? he wondered. Surely, just using Empath’s Gaze won’t harm me.

He recalled Mirrin’s words. His uncle had stressed the point over a dozen times since their long talk the other day. He was worried that Marek dabbling in the darkness might expedite the madness to come. “What does Mirrin really know about the Class, though? He admitted that little is known about the Remnant Mages that came before me. How much can he know?” He chewed his lip, deciding to take a small risk for the sake of figuring out even a bit more of who he was and what he could do.

Marek closed his eyes and slowed his breathing. He wasn’t sure which Ability to attempt, but Command Spirit didn’t sit well with him. Surely, it had to be a greater risk. And he didn’t have the spine to search for spirits to siphon power from. Marek decided Spirit Body and Empath’s Gaze were the only safe options.

“I’ll try the first. I activated Spirit Body after coming back from the wall, but I didn’t even mean to. Can’t go using magic on accident, so seems like as good a place to start as any.”

The only question remaining was how to do that. In the Crucible, he had but to think of the Ability and it activated. Such control didn’t often come so easily. There were many methods to trigger a Spell or Skill. Visualization, evocation, or more symbolic means like the burning of glyph scripts, for instance, allowed for the exploration and use of Skills. When Marek used Intuit, he relied solely on a mental command. Mirrin verbalized all his Skills. The general consensus in Ardea was that such methods were a sign of incompetence. His uncle wasn’t Ardean, however. Marek could practically hear Mirrin’s voice, as if he was standing right beside him. The Ardeans strive to achieve total competence of self. For them, speaking the Skill’s name as a catalyst is a failure. Yet in Casteras, most crafters prefer this method for one simple reason: Calling the name of a Principality-given Skill is viewed as an invocation. It’s akin to a prayer uttered to the Six themselves. Do not scorn the practice, Marek. To do so is a minor but meaningful blasphemy.

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Deciding he’d start with verbalization, Marek reached inward for his pool of mana. It remained small, but the power was potent and eager nonetheless. Then he whispered the words, “Spirit Body.”

Marek held his breath, nose wrinkling in anticipation.

Nothing happened.

He groaned and shook out his arms, then stood to try and relax. One couldn’t force a Skill to activate. Not without understanding, at least. If he wanted to do this, it would only come if he eased into it. Once more, he tapped the pool of mana that stirred in his belly. “Spirit Body,” he said again, more confidently and with less fear.

Again, nothing happened.

He cocked his head to one side, confused. “Okay, I guess I’ll try the other one? I did it once. Should be able to do it again, right?”

Empath’s Gaze was an incredible Ability all on its own. Marek wasn’t a Cleric or a Seer, nor was he an advanced Fighter that had taken a leadership Class. Those and a few other Classes were granted visual representations of the system that governed the Coherent Realm. He’d heard it described as seeing Attributes, Abilities, and information about others as if reading a scroll in the mind. Marek had read the description of Spirit Body upon first waking from the Crucible. He didn’t need to read any more descriptions, though. Empath’s Gaze was versatile. It allowed him to see spirits as well as communicate with them. That wasn’t a path he wanted to take any time soon.

Eyes pressed shut, Marek used a mental command as before, guiding the Ability with his intention. Suddenly, he saw himself from a third point of view. He couldn’t see his face or clothes, yet he saw the inner working of his magical body. He found his Core first. A swirl of bright mana, though smaller than it should have been. It looked a little like a snake eating itself. Looking closer, he found a few places in the flow that seemed obstructed. Perhaps with time it might heal?

Moving on, Marek shifted Empath’s Gaze so that he viewed his entire body once more. A series of channels ran up and down his spine, branching off to feed mana to his limbs. One of these tiny rivers flowed to his head as well. If I look close enough will I see smaller ones in my fingers and toes? The theory was confirmed a heartbeat later.

Marek didn’t open his eyes, but he allowed himself to grin. The thrill of discovery never got old. Fascinating. Wonder what else I can find? He swept his gaze back and forth along his arms, then up and down his body. As his attention crossed his chest, he paused. Something was different there, though at first he couldn’t discern precisely what.

And then he remembered. Behind his ribs, surrounding his beating heart, something quite new had taken root. Similar to his mana pool, a source of energy swirled within. Focusing on it now, Marek could sense the power, feel it intimately. It was bitter cold, completely unlike the warm and invigorating tingle of mana. So this is ether. My Spirit Core is impressive, he thought. Similar to his Mana Core, it constantly flowed, yet the ring had been twisted so that it formed the symbol of eternity. Wonder if that’s what happened when I chose two Subclasses.

Marek had seen enough. He let go of any chagrin he felt at forgetting about his Spirit Core. All of this was new territory, and his perspective in the Crucible had been greatly altered. So, guided by his intuition, Marek attempted to activate Spirit Body once more. Focusing on his Spirit Core this time, he whispered the name of the Ability and held his breath.

Three rivers of ice poured from the center of his chest. Two flooded outward to fill his arms and hands with energy, while the other ran down his torso and split at his hips to infuse his legs as well. In mere seconds, his entire body was filled to bursting with the frigid power.

He gasped as a glow filled his vision. Marek felt himself lift off the ground as segments of armor covered his legs and feet. He glanced down and chills spread across his body. The armor disappeared almost immediately after being conjured, and now it looked very much like Marek was floating. His feet stood six inches above the stone threshold.

“Amazing,” he said, grinning like a fool. “I feel so… powerful!” There was no other way to describe it. In the Crucible, his excitement had been subdued like all his other emotions. He couldn’t believe how intoxicating this felt. “I can do anything.”

Marek imagined his trek into the wilderness, and he felt a shred of confidence this time. He wasn’t powerless. In fact, Marek knew instinctively that he could best someone like Isaac with little trouble, even without using his other Abilities. Thinking of the bully triggered something inside him. An image of Isaac lying in a pool of blood flashed in Marek’s mind. More terrifying was the foreign urge that overwhelmed him at the same time. A voice at the back of Marek’s mind gave voice to this craving, rasping like a blade on flint. Hunt, subdue, cut, slay, conquer! the voice chanted, repeating the words in a loop.