By the time Marek caught up, his companions had already figured out the mysterious appearance of a strange and friendly dragon. Allon quickly charmed those he’d just terrified by preening shamelessly.

  Mags shot Marek a barbed look but immediately shifted her attention back to the daemon, saying, “Truly, I’ve never seen scales so fine. They’re the deepest green possible! Tell us, how’d you get them?”

  “Evolution!” Allon declared loudly, his rasping voice childishly enthusiastic. “I eat the most Graysouls and earned a perk, too! Monstrous Maw! Tell them, Master!”

  “Oh, I’m afraid everything he’s telling you is true,” Marek admitted, taking a seat near the newly kindled fire. “I’m just sorry everyone had to find out so abruptly.”

  Yuze chuckled and reached out a hand to stroke the daemon’s neck. “Don’t be. In my homeland, we were accustomed to creatures like this. Smaller than the great dragons of Aiel and Western Shirgrim, the eastern varieties were beloved by many. Fierce but friendly. In fact, I was friends with one once upon a time.”

  The old man began telling a story of his life long ago. Allon, predictably, grew bored. The daemon pretended to pay attention but secretly reached out to Marek. What Abilities should I choose?

  Marek listed the options, all different than the last time around, shaped by the recent evolution. Well, as I agreed before, you can make that choice. If it were up to me, however, I’d recommend Wing Blast, Veridian Flames, or Resilient Growth.

  Not Tyrant of the Sky? Allon asked. Attacking from above with sharp claws would be deadly.

  True, and it is a good Skill. I like Wing Blast because it allows you to stun a large group of enemies. That too would be deadly. Veridian Flames speaks for itself. The description says the fire has a lingering effect, sticking to enemies and causing damage over time. It would also let you damage structures as well, in case we’re ever fighting in a city. Marek waited for his familiar to respond, but when Allon revealed he’d been swept up in Yuze’s story, he waited patiently.

  “Ranthin was of the water dragon variety, long and sleek. Less deadly than the earthen or fire-breathing types, but that didn’t matter to me. She was kind and clever, and an excellent partner when playing Makhanda.”

  Mags interrupted. “What’s that? A game or sport?”

  Yuze hummed delightedly. “Both, according to some. Similar to Bridges, Keeps, and Valleys Deep the Ardeans play, but only in principle. Makhanda sets are constructed of iron or stone, so that the weight of each movement is felt by the player. Anyhow, I met Ranthin one day when she was sun-bathing near the Wulin River.”

  Apparently, Allon’s interest waned, for he nudged Marek again. Why Resilient Growth? I’m already hard to kill. It isn’t nearly as fun as the others.

  Then don’t choose it. All are good options; I only thought you might want a means of recovering from injury.

  In the end, his familiar selected Veridian Flames and Tyrant of the Sky. Finalizing the selections, Marek indulged in reviewing his own options. He’d decide his Skill evolutions and Trait after selecting his new Abilities. Yuze’s story droned on, and then Mags shared one of her own. Marek had selected and finalized three of his options as well as one Skill evolution by the time she finished.

  Rending Cut, Requiem Explosion, and Efficiency Aura would diversify his Abilities greatly, the last of which making the costly Requiem Explosion much more plausible. Marek read the description one last time before finalizing his choice.

  ***

  Efficiency Aura: Refining the manner with which ether is channeled, this passive Ability significantly reduces the cost of all active Abilities.

  ***

  Simple, and as Allon would likely put it, boring. Yet Marek couldn’t wait to see how big an effect it had on his fighting style. He’d be able to rely less heavily on Ether Siphon, which in turn would free up more spirits to use as soldiers.

  He turned his attention to the Skill evolution he’d landed on. Spirit Body Tier 2 would be chosen no matter what the other options were. No other Ability, with perhaps the exception of Command Spirit, could compare to the utility of Spirit Body. Advancing that Skill would be invaluable.

  “Marek,” Mags said, cutting through his thought process.

  He blinked, glancing between the others as he noticed all were looking his way. “Sorry, I’m a bit distracted. What is it?”

  The woman’s smile did little to hide the strain in her eyes. He’d missed something, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what it was. In the end, it was Ashurai who answered, not Mags. “I have a favor to ask of you—one you will not appreciate. Forgive me, Marek, but I have no choice.”

  The Basari’s tone sent a chill through Marek. Ashurai wasn’t the dramatic type. If he meant to ask a favor so displeasing, Marek wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He shrugged anyhow, and asked for the second time, “What is it? You’re scaring me, Ashurai. If you need something, just ask.”

  Ashurai sat rigidly across the fire, spine refusing to yield to whatever discomfort was oppressing him. Mags reached out a hand and placed it on the warrior’s shoulder. At her touch, he softened inwardly. Shifting forward and resting his weight on his elbows, Ashurai found his courage. “I am not the fighter I was when we first met. In Shirgrim, I made a choice—one I do not regret, yet now I am weaker than I have been in many years.”

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  Marek was confused by the direction Ashurai had taken. He’d been told these things, and yet still didn’t know why the Basari had diminished in power, what had injured him.

  Untucking the cloth wrap around his left wrist, Ashurai unrolled a section of it. Then he turned up his forearm and exposed a freshly healed scar. The gash cut deeply into his cinnamon skin, bisecting a familiar symbol Marek recognized at once.

  The Sigilist gasped, drawing back his head in revulsion. “You were marked by a Caro Sigilist? Who did this to you? And why would you allow it?” Mags scowled his way, but Marek ignored her. His gaze remained on Ashurai, a man who very much needed to explain himself.

  Sitting tall and proud, the sinew in his jaw flexing tightly, Ashurai defended his position. “Everything I’ve done in life to become what you see before you has undermined tradition.”

  “Undermined the law!” Marek shot back.

  “That too. I regret nothing, and were it not for my decisions, our paths would never have crossed. And for that matter, your friend would no longer be alive.”

  This blunt statement checked Marek’s anger. He breathed deeply and tried to let it go. A vision of his uncle’s mangled body filled his mind, revealing the true source of his rage. “Sorry, I’m not a Priest of the Principalities, and I’m not a Lawman. Your choices are your own. What’s this have to do with me, though? I still don’t follow.”

  Ashurai said, “I destroyed my speed, my strength, my endurance. I am your better with the blade by skill alone, Marek, and I’ve trained for as long as you’ve been living. I ask of you a horrible favor I don’t expect you to accept. And since there’s no point in delaying, I’ll say it clearly. Use your Class to return a portion of my power. Even four or five Caro Sigils will be enough to—”

  “Absolutely not!” Marek shouted. He realized he’d gotten to his feet. His fists were clenched, and everyone was looking at him with shocked expressions, Allon included. “Mirrin is my mentor! He told me never to commit this abomination. He only gave me instructions to do so in case I might need to render my body useless, to hinder my mana and stifle the madness! Mags, how could you tell him I’m capable of this!?”

  “It’s not a big deal!” she yelled. “You’re a rifting Remnant Mage, Marek! You killed hundreds a week ago, slaughtered countless Druskin! What’s a worse crime of nature? Murder or this?”

  Marek trembled in the effort to restrain himself. He’d never been so angry at his friend, so resentful. Speaking through clenched teeth, he said, “I haven’t murdered anyone.”

  Mags flushed a deep crimson, and regret creased her brow. “Sorry, Mar, I didn’t mean—“

  “Obviously you did!” Throwing up his hands, Marek spat into the campfire. “You said what you said, and I’m done with this conversation. Let’s go, Allon. We can find somewhere else to rest tonight.”

  A voice steeped in countless years halted his retreat. Yuze, practically growling the words, said, “The mage we encountered did not lie. Even now, a dark enemy searches for us. I know not if we’ll encounter him, but I’m certain the Death Mage is hunting us. Twice in my life I have fought to subdue and destroy one such as him… and twice I nearly died in the attempt.”

  Marek’s anger guttered out, quenched by a river of fear. “The Death Mage? Yuze, why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

  The monk snatched his bo staff and tapped a log in the fire. It collapsed and sent a burst of sparks into the air. His response was spiteful and desperate. “Half the time my mind isn’t my own! More than half! Of all people, Marek, you should understand my plight. And when I have possessed my faculties, I’ve used them to their fullest to bring us closer to safety, to track the unseen enemy, and to prepare my Dai’shu for the future!”

  A bout of emotion wracked the ancient man’s frail body. He dropped his staff and teetered in place, Mags rising swiftly to catch him under the arm. Patience and remorse then returned to Yuze. He smiled at Marek, a sadness so dire in his eyes it stole every last shred of anger from the young mage’s heart. “Do as your companion asks. He knows it not, but Ashurai belongs to an old tradition, one that wasn’t always loathed in the Coherent Realm. They were known by another name but are often referred to as Body Enhancers. A childish king forbade caro and ostea sigilcraft centuries ago—not because it offends the gods, but because it threatened his tenuous rule.”

  Yuze sat, shoulders sagging beneath an unseen weight, and repeated himself in a whisper. “Do as your companion asks, Marek. If you deny him, he will not survive the coming days. Now, please excuse me. I need rest. Marigold, sleep and form your Second Ring tonight. Wake me when it is done. I have things to tell you.”

  Marek watched the monk totter away, collapse into a bedroll, and curl up. Guilt and anger and shame clawed for dominance in his heart. In the end, he knew his course of action, and he faced it head on.

  Recalling Allon, he touched the ring Rauld had given him. He sat before the flames and removed his box of tools. While Mags and Ashurai observed, Marek studied the manual Mirrin had given him so many months ago. Then he withdrew the sigil brands that would best serve Ashurai. “Speed, Dexterity, Puissance, Constitution… which do you require most?”

  Ashurai’s response was immediate. “All but Puissance. Strength is useful but not a priority.”

  “Which first?” Marek asked, removing one of the sigils he’d chosen.

  “Speed.”

  Marek fixed the symbol in the brand handle and placed it on a stone, positioning the end among a cluster of coals. “The process is simple, but as you obviously know, it will be painful. I possess only the weakest of the Sigilist Skills. Imbue will grant you a temporary increase, but I cannot say how long the enchantment will last.”

  “I understand.”

  Meeting the warrior’s gaze, Marek waited for the brand to heat. “The book says nothing about what this will do to your body, your core. Do you know how many you can take?”

  Ashurai nodded solemnly. “The most I’ve received in the past was three. If you’ll consent, I would ask for one more than that. I think I’m strong enough to endure it.”

  Marek didn’t question his companion’s resolve. He merely consigned himself to completing the task to the best of his ability. A few minutes later, he checked the brand. It glowed brightly. Gesturing to the space beside him, he said, “Come. Let’s do what we must.”

  Ashurai knelt and uncovered a smooth patch of skin below his left elbow. Silently, he waited.

  Marek allowed the brand to cool until its color was ideal, the precise middle between orange and red. Then he held the brand over Ashurai’s arm. Focusing his mind, Marek aligned his intention with the chosen sigil. And in one smooth motion, he activated Imbue and applied the brand.

  The hiss of cooling metal on flesh and the stench of burned skin were the only sensations present in Marek’s world. His gut twisted, but he refused the guilt that threatened to consume him. Mirrin would do the same if need be. He will understand.

  Ashurai bore the mark without so much as grimacing. When the mana poured from Marek’s core, the warrior’s eyes dimmed slightly, as if he’d been hit with a flood of exhaustion. Three consecutive ripples pulsed outward from his core, each announcing an increase in level. Apparently, committing abomination is a rewarding act, he thought bitterly.

  The act was done, and after half a minute, Ashurai said, “Another of the same, please.”

  Marek placed the brand back into the fire. Ashurai rolled up his opposite sleeve and waited with absolute patience. Mags’ eyes welled, her unshed tears reflected orange with the firelight. She smiled at Marek, thanking him and apologizing at the same time.

  The Sigilist only nodded, withdrawing the brand and inspecting its heat, preparing to repeat the process.