“Principalities, save me!” Marek cried, letting go of the Ability. The icy power abated, and he crashed roughly onto his backside. He let out a yelp inadvertently and twisted around to rub his tailbone.

As soon as he released Spirit Armor, the voice stopped its mantra. The memory lingered, however, and it filled him with dread. The urge to kill wasn’t foreign. Everyone had such thoughts briefly. It was the same instinct to join the fight he’d felt with Mags after using Intuit.

Marek consoled himself with a single important fact. I didn’t listen it then, and I didn’t listen to whatever that was just now. All men have urges. The distinction of character arises when we choose not to heed them.

The rattle of the knob behind him made him shriek. He jumped off the stoop and twisted halfway in the air, eyes bulging like a bee-bitten hound.

“Impressive!” Mirrin said cheerfully. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

Marek huffed. “The body is capable of many things when it thinks it’s in danger. You nearly made me give up the ghost!”

Mirrin arched a bushy eyebrow, holding his nephew’s gaze. “Interesting choice of words, boy. Seems likely you’ll come to know more than most about ghosts in the weeks and months ahead.”

Marek scowled. “Feeling better, are we?”

Mirrin stepped to one side and bobbed his head merrily. “Oh, don’t be so sensitive. I’m halfway dead myself, and you don’t see me complaining.”

“You’re not destined to go mad and maybe kill everyone around you!”

Mirrin chuckled and stepped to the side of the door, waving Marek in. “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. Think about it, boy—things can only improve from here. The worst has already come to pass. If you cannot master your Abilities, you’ll at the very least die on your own terms. That’s a fate most men are denied.”

A pitiful laugh spilled from Marek’s lips. Unable to deny the old man’s logic, he obediently entered. The smell of freshly cooked food eased his frayed nerves further still. Soon, the two were eating a hearty meal. Eggs, herbed sausage, and a skillet of potatoes were just the thing to stem off the uncertainty and fear that threatened to swallow Marek whole. In fact, he greeted the meal with a ravenous appetite. His dour mood lifted as he loaded his plate a second and third time.

Mirrin smiled as he watched his nephew indulge. “You’re healing,” he said fondly. “I dare say it fills me with hope. I assumed we’d both die in the next few years. Now that you’ve become the next Remnant Mage, might as well enjoy the benefits?”

“Benefits? Your optimism is perverse, Uncle,” Marek pointed out, words garbled by potatoes and sausage.

“Don’t be contrite. Your father was only with us for a short while before the King took him, but I remember clearly how he changed. Got stronger, more… commanding, in a way. Hells, he even got taller. With all your body’s been through, I imagine you’ll have quite the dramatic transformation!”

Marek arched an eyebrow. “You mean what you’ve put my body through?”

Mirrin grunted, acknowledging the fact nonchalantly. “Just so. And now that I’m not poisoning you regularly, your only task is to figure out how not to go insane. If you do as I ask, and avoid using your Abilities, you might have a chance to trick fate.”

Marek paused his chewing, then swallowed. He hadn’t yet recovered from the fright of hearing a voice lusting after violence in his own head. Guilt at having disobeyed Mirrin filled him then, and he grimaced, staring at his half-empty plate.

“Don’t be so touchy,” Mirrin said, mistaking Marek’s expression. “I’m trying to see the bright side.”

“Don’t be such an ass, then,” Marek countered. He managed a smile and added, “Imagine if the tables were turned.”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Mirrin shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind, actually. As I see it, you have a bit of time. This way, you at least have a fighting chance, boy! You can head off on a grand adventure and see some of this vast, terrible, majestic world we live in! Better than crafting trinkets and enchanting plowshares in this dusty little town until you die.”

Marek’s stomach felt suddenly tight. He sighed and set down his fork. “You have a point, I suppose. Still, I wish this grand adventure didn’t include the potential of both of us dying.”

“Both of us?”

“You heard me,” Marek said mournfully. “I meant to tell you sooner, but…”

“But a lot has happened,” Mirrin finished when Marek’s voice trailed off. “Go on, then. What do you have to tell me? Let me guess—did Tilda stop by?”

Marek’s fork clanked against his plate. “She did… How’d you know?”

Mirrin sighed deeply and rubbed his hands together. “Not the first time there’s been trouble in Northern Ardea. First supplies to get nabbed up by the army are herbs, medicines, and various metals for armor and weapons. Next there will be a great shortage of young men.”

Marek set down his plate, shoulders tensing. “You think there’ll be a draft? What about Mags?”

“Marigold knew what she was doing when she enlisted. All of us are pursued by fate. If it lends you comfort, know she won’t be selected on the first round. She didn’t unlock a Class, and that makes her less valuable.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the cabin. Marek’s belly gurgled loudly, and he chuckled. Drawn back to the topic at hand, he said, “About Tilda. She told me where to find a few reagents that will help, some less sought after than Duskleaf and Wither Marrow.”

Mirrin perked up. “Oh? I’m not a learned man in the realm of medicinals. What did she say?”

Marek told his uncle about the herbs, even reading a few details from his notebook directly. When he finished, he ended with the confession of the plan he’d settled on. “Tilda said there should be reagents in the mountains of Western Casteras. It’s my best bet, Uncle. The best part is that I won’t have to risk the pass leading into Shirgrim itself to get to them. At first, I considered asking Mags if she’d come, but given my condition, I’ll be going alone.”

A long, uncomfortable pause followed. This extended until Marek thought for sure he’d need to repeat himself. His uncle seemed sharp that day, but the old man had lapses every now and then, a side effect of his long illness.

Finally, Mirrin drew in a sharp breath. “The Casterans love war and conquest as much as Ardeans love mead. Tilda may be wise, but she knows nothing of your plight. You can’t go anywhere near that cursed kingdom, boy. If the King or his men find you, you’ll spend the rest of your days in unending slaughter.”

Marek pushed back, not wanting to relinquish his position so quickly. “Are you so certain they’ll come for me? What ruler would risk using such a deadly tool? If what you said about my father’s death is true, and he destroyed the city of Tolencia, why would the King of Casteras repeat the mistake twice?”

“A kingdom is made of many cities,” Mirrin hissed bitterly. “Much is left out of the histories, Marek. The last war between Ardea and Casteras was far more eventful than our king likes to admit.” Mirrin held his nephew’s gaze, one brow arched. “In a few short years, your father led a three-pronged campaign. Casteras claimed thousands of acres of land from Ardea, their southern neighbor. They pushed the Tree Lords of Tashkal back into their forests, expanding their northern border. And the bastards stole the eastern slopes of the mountains from Shirgrim! The price of Tolencia was easily weighed against such profits. At least from the perspective of a warmonger!”

The old man allowed the words to sink in. When he spoke again, it was in a calmer tone. “My dear nephew, I left our homeland behind along with my past. I spent most of my fortune hiring the services of underground mages in Swiftwall. With their help, our signatures were augmented and our last names changed to Theeras. I gave up everything, including my health, to prevent Casteras from finding us. That twisted king will come for you now that your Class has awoken. No amount of magic can hide it from his Augurs.”

Marek nodded, frustrated but beginning to see his uncle’s perspective. A few words of Mirrin’s rant surfaced then, and he fixed his uncle with an inquisitive gaze. “You were poisoning yourself as well?” he guessed. “That’s what you meant by giving up your health?”

Mirrin smiled wistfully. “Always a clever boy.”

“I’m not a boy, Uncle,” Marek said, surprised at the steel in his voice. “I survived the Crucible. I’m twenty summers old, and I’ve lived through more pain and suffering than most men thrice my age.”

“I will try to remember that,” Mirrin said. “Sorry, Marek, I raised you. It isn’t easy to change how I view you.”

Marek understood, but he doubted Mirrin understood him. “Listen, I know you sacrificed much to avoid capture, and to prevent me from being taken. As you said, though, the worst has come to pass. I am the Remnant Mage! I’m still tempted to heed Tilda’s advice. Casteras is closer, the journey less arduous, and I can come back in plenty of time to save you.”

Mirrin’s calm demeanor exploded. Face contorting with rage, he screamed at Marek, “I’m not the one that needs saving! My fate’s been sealed for decades, damn you! Why won’t you just listen?”

“I have!” Marek shot back. “And I appreciate your wisdom, but Mirrin, I’ll decide my own path.”

The flames of Mirrin’s anger dwindled, leaving him deflated and small. He shook his head and touched his chest with one trembling hand, then stood. “Come. I’ve something you should see in the workshop. Something I wasn’t brave enough to show you yesterday.”