With smooth black bark and a crown of green leaves the size of copper coins, the ironwood tree wasn’t nearly as majestic as Marek had expected. Its twisting branches rose only ten or so feet high. The mana surrounding it felt thick and potent, and yet in the end, it was just a tree.

  Marek’s shoulders threatened to buckle under the weight of disappointment. He wasn’t sure if he could face Mags, tell her of his ultimate failure. She’s going to be heartbroken. She’ll never forgive me, but if she won’t gather the rest of the herbs and return to Misthearth, I’ll leave her behind along with all the rest. Find an end for myself somewhere deep in the mountains. I will not destroy her in my madness.

  Why mussst we die? Allon asked, his voice timid and afraid. We can hunt in the wilds. Grow stronger and feed. This is good.

  No, Marek said. I don’t trust myself. The battle was… I almost lost everyone, Allon. I won’t become a monster.

  Flashes of a battlefield filled his mind. Summoning hundreds of spirits, raising their power and organizing dozens of spectral squads to mobilize and crush the enemy. Facing down a giant beast capable of destroying a town in a single night and hacking it to pieces systematically. He watched the scenes as if from a distance. His memories seemed borrowed, gleaned over the shoulder of someone else. How could he have done any of those things? He was Marek, Mirrin’s sickly nephew. He wasn’t the shrouded terror that led an army and defeated monstrosities in single combat.

  If not for Mags, Marek knew he’d have drifted too far into the shadows. She’d been the first and only one to approach him. She’d found him surrounded by a throng of spirits, covered in blood and Graysoul ichor. Mags had pushed her way through the mass of souls to reach him. Despite the fear she’d undoubtedly felt, despite the risk he’d confuse her for an enemy and command his horde to tear her apart, Mags had found him.

  All he remembered was shifting darkness. Then rough, callused hands held his face, and sweetly, she’d called his name. Not Marek Kaiteras, but Marek Theeras, the name they’d both known as his for so many years. Her gray eyes were the first thing he saw when he surfaced. But though his friend had rescued him, the shadows lingered. His periphery swam with them. The voices of the dead whispered endlessly. He’d released the spirits, worried he might lose control and use the terrible weapon against those he loved.

  Some hope returned when Tessin Lin and her aunt agreed to lead Marek to the sacred ironwood grove. And now here he was. Mags, Gorb, Niamh, Ashurai, and Yuze waited for him half a mile away. He sat beneath the largest ironwood in the grove, staring up through the black branches at an indifferent sky, unsure of what to do next. The tree didn’t speak to him. His Class didn’t react, nor did Empath’s Gaze acquire so much as a description of the ironwood. He touched the tree, carved into it with the black sword. He’d even dug in the soil and grasped the roots with desperate fingers.

  Nothing had happened. Not a single insight gained.

  Marek had read everything Rauld had given him. As interesting as they might be, the books were next to useless. Songs and rumors and second-hand reports. The staff was mentioned dozens of times, but not one entry included the manner in which it could be forged and bound.

  Maybe the golemites will know? I could go with Gorb to its sacred city and beg the oldest of them for the knowledge. If not them, then perhaps the fey. Would they listen to me, though? Would they allow me into their fabled courts or simply kill me when I cross the border?

  His daemon whimpered in the back of his mind. Poor Allon had never expressed such fear before, not even after being ripped to shreds by the compound Graysoul.

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  Marek sighed and, resolving not to give up, closed his eyes to meditate.

  His mind was scattered, his thoughts frantic, so he focused only on the sensations around him. The ironwoods had a complex fragrance. They bled sap from the base of their branches that smelled like pitch and crushed sage. The soil was dark and soft beneath him. A thin layer of dried leaves covered the ground and crunched faintly every time he shifted. Wind blew from the east. The branches whispered to one another, and Marek yearned to know their language. If he did, he could simply ask the trees.

  “Have you tried asking?”

  Marek jumped and pressed a hand to his chest. “Principalities, Yuze. A little warning would have been nice.”

  The old man sat beside him, laying his battered walking stick across his lap. Closing his eyes, Yuze began the deep and careful breathing pattern he so often used. With little else to do, Marek joined him.

  The technique was harder than Marek guessed. Each inhalation lasted for what seemed like an eternity. The exhalation was split into three, the breath held for ten or so seconds between each. It took Marek several attempts to match the old man breath for breath, and even so, he felt his head begin to spin from lack of air.

  Time passed, and Marek took hold of the threads of hope that were left to him. He would visit the golemites, then the Greater Fey should that plan fail. It had taken his father years to go mad. Surely, Marek had a few weeks left, a few months if he was lucky.

  Yuze broke off the exercise and began humming softly. The wanderer was an enigma Marek knew he’d never understand. Old and wise, broken and angry, young and childish—all of these characteristics described Yuze. And at any given time, one couldn’t predict which aspect they might encounter. After casually displaying mastery over his body, the monk was now humming a childish tune. It was lilting and seemingly without direction. Marek nearly laughed at the absurdity of the moment.

  And then the melody progressed to what Marek assumed was a chorus. A repeating melody, bright yet sad. Hearing the song sent a flush of goosebumps racing across Marek’s bare arms. His eyes shot open and he stared at Yuze, who sat complacently and smiled.

  There was no doubt. He’d heard the song before. Heard it whistled in the dark corridors of the Crucible.

  “Yuze,” he said, hearing the quiver in his own voice. “Yuze, where did you hear that song?”

  “Hmm?”

  Marek raised his voice and clasped Yuze’s arm. “The song you’re humming—where did you hear it?”

  The monk chuckled but didn’t open his eyes. “My mother sang it to me when I was a child. Silly but also beautiful, is it not? My good friend Serin enjoyed it too… or was he my enemy?” Chuckling again, he said, “There isn’t always a distinction between the two, is there?”

  Marek reeled internally. He gaped at Yuze, who’d begun humming the tune once more. After several long moments, he regained the ability to speak. “Serin Kaiteras?”

  Yuze’s eyes did open then, and they were keen as the edge of the black sword. “Why yes, yes, that’s right. Serin was a good man. Stubborn and ambitious, but in the end, he died to save us all. But… who are you, young man?”

  Marek frowned. “I’m Marek. Marek Kaiteras, the Remnant—”

  “You’re Serin’s heir? You? You!” Yuze leapt to his feet, laughing. “Gods, but I’ve remembered my task after all. I was certain I’d lost it for good this time. How long has it been? Ah, around a thousand years, I suppose.”

  Standing on trembling legs, Marek asked, “What task? Are you going to teach me to bind the ironwood and create a staff? Please, Yuze, tell me you know how!”

  Yuze shook his head. Gaze burning with emotion, one tear rolling down his tanned cheek, he said, “There’s no need, young man. Serin asked me to give you his instead.”

  And with that, Yuze handed over the walking stick.

  Marek took it, confused and disappointed. As soon as it touched his hand, the outline of the stick shimmered a brilliant purple before transforming. It grew to just over five feet in length, its wood twisting and darkening to the same color of the ironwood before him. A shattered crystal appeared at its top, bound in place by strips of ironwood that appeared to have grown around it organically.

  His hands shook as he held the heirloom gently. Here it was, waiting for him to bind. Letters filled his mind, asking him a simple question.

  ***

  Ironwood Staff: Remnant Mage Class

  Do you wish to bind this weapon to your core?

  ***

  Marek answered with a thought. Yes! And as his ether made contact with the magic of the staff, a terrible cold pierced him flesh and soul.

  He didn’t even have a chance to scream as a tide of ether swept him away. Blackness engulfed everything—the sun and sky, the ironwood tree, the weeping monk beside him, and the countless shadows lurking in his periphery.