My conversation with Sovina had set my blood pumping hot and hands jittery with impatience. We’d been traveling all this time, and so I had not had the chance to test my Sorcery as thoroughly as I wished, but perhaps tonight would be the beginning of a new habitual practice. I need to overcome the environmental limitations, I thought, squatting above a small fire I’d made near my outcropping rocks adjacent to a large boulder that sheltered me from the wind. To do what may need to be done, I shall require more than a handful of Soulborne and a few basic Spells of little note. Now, my Dead were stalking the perimeter in shifts of two, with the other pair resting. Hard marching in the cold, snow-packed mountain landscape had tired them. It was not a thing I had considered, but with the lower density of lingering Souls in this region added on to the general increased dissipation of the present state of the world, I would have to take greater care of my Soulborne.

  There was much to improve in their designs, certainly, such as binding my imbued Sorcery with greater efficiency, decreasing such bleed, or perhaps working to extend their effective range. But I was more focused on Sorcery of another kind. As I saw it, my Dead constructions were limited by resources, time, and my capacity for maintenance. They did not require much from me after creation, but sending orders did cost an unconscious drain on energy, as did their general presence, for they ate through lingering Soul magic as a fire needs air. So, with a large enough group, my own casting would be directly inhibited. This was not something I could afford in the long run. I had to be flexible, mobile, and independently capable. All of this meant I had to develop and improve a new array of Spells that didn’t require summoning or creating Dead.

  I chuckled to myself, remembering the grand army of Dead I’d torn from the earth with my final moments of consciousness so long ago. It was not a time to smile about, but the act seemed preposterous now when even raising one without a corpse and immediate fuel was a sure way to acquire more Corruption. Ah, yes, my other obstacle. I touched the dark lines snaking my arms and threatening my throat. It ate at my dreams, giving fears and anxieties when there should be peace, endangering my Soul to an existence of captivity to hate against the living, making me vulnerable to influences of potent, pointed Sorcery at my very being. But I was born to handle such things, trained to, and so the damned influence of overdrawing upon Spirits was slowed. For now.

  Before the fire, trying to cast thoughts of my Corruption from my mind, I worked through many basic Spells taught to apprentices and students. Some curses that affected an individual, usually through a steady stream of focused Sorcery and uninterrupted intention—they drained energy and will, blighted the skin, and accelerated decomposition—effective, in narrow senses, but not tools for combat, not really. They were what Feia could manage, and surprisingly, she had taught me some throughout the days’ discussions. But these were not ideal for me. So, I focused on direct alteration of a target’s Soul. It was difficult without said target, so I improvised.

  Stringing together targetting incantations, I turned what was once second nature and more a latent ability in the olden days into a Spell. I blinked with its casting, and the world shifted into monochrome. Through the dead brush, snow, and darkness of overlapping shadows, I found the world alive. Small mammals flittered and crawled across the rocky landscape around me, their forms alit by the Souls burning within them—minuscule to a human’s, perhaps, but existent nonetheless. Its range was only a few dozen paces, but any sort of Soulsight was useful, and with practice, I could circumnavigate the limitations. From there, I practiced targeting the small mammals around me, regretful for the killing, but not enough to stop my progress. Soon enough, I optimized a Soul-targeting concentrated cross between a Curse and the beginning half of a Soulfire spell. The result was a crippled creature that found its insides boiled with overheating Soul energy that quickly dissipated in a sizzle into the air.

  In Pethya, bones were often used to store Soul power, but they were set in more civilized containers and receptacles. Certain stones and metals worked as well, but bones were organic and natural homes for Souls, making them some of the best materials to imbue. Still, these creatures were too small for any real use. Human bones worked best. I shrugged and collected the tiny corpses to bury, for they’d earned that much, at least. Upon finishing, I reflected upon why it had taken me so long to make even minor steps toward improving my Sorcerous condition. Perhaps it was a complacency in travel with a band of warriors, an overconfidence in a world of amateur Sorcerers, or a reprioritization toward knowledge and the truth of my people. Regardless, I stamped the ground down and huddled by my waning fire, promising that I would not sit on my laurels but continue to improve my state in both Soulborne and my own Spell capacity. Never again would the enemy be able to overwhelm me and do as they wished. Never again could they simply take as they wished. This time, I would be ready.

  …

  Many of us awoke in the night to the sound of howls in the distance. They echoed up, reverberating through the still landscape, sounding both imminently near and far off. But they were getting closer. This much was clear enough. So Feia and I pulled our piles of soft-needled branches closer to the main fire, laying our blankets over them once again. She sat atop and tended to the fire, a fur over her shoulders, dark eyes glittering from the dancing flames. I pulled my gaze away and toward the dark all around, sending out a probing command into the night.

  While my control over distance was weak, and the details of my orders limited, I still could issue a command for returning. And if my Soulborne had not made any errors, they should be close enough to receive such a message. My faith in their reliability was proven accurate, for they loped out of the shadows like phantoms of their own kind. The newest of them, however, was injured. Its leg was torn up, and while the damaged muscle tissue wouldn’t directly affect its movement—for it was fueled by Sorcery—damage after conversion to Soulborne did leak Souls, making them less efficient by nature. So, I spent a little while repairing the wound in a manner that might kill the living with the sheer Sorcery I was pumping through its body. During the process, it became clear that the injury was caused by a beast, which I confirmed with Protis.

  “Wolf pack,” it rumbled, facing our dark perimeter. “Eight sighted. More beyond.”

  I nodded, communicating the information to Oskar, who was rubbing his eyes and making everyone well aware of how tired he was. But that night, no wolves attacked us, and we were kept awake and at bay by their howls and imagined sights of predators in the shadow. I did not let my Soulborne out again, for though I believed their odds against a score or less of wolves a winnable engagement, I didn’t care for them to incur further costly injuries. I could not repair much more than one such wound a night. So we resigned ourselves to await the morning, only catching moments of sleep as the sun rose from the clifftops to the east.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  And even the next night, we were haunted by the ominous howling. A few of the warriors wished to go out and hunt the beasts, but Oskar put a quick end to that, pointing out how they were dumb sons of goat bedders and should save their lunacy for Drazivaska. During the day, Feia and I spoke on all matters of Sorcery, and the picture of the current world became far clearer the more she learned about the fundamental mechanics of casting. It turned out she had been primarily self-taught, picking up pieces of knowledge here and there from her own experimentation. I admired her for that, but the lack of a formal study or apprenticeship was evident and, frankly, heavily limiting. In Pethya, Sorcery was one’s road toward the highest status in the physical and Spiritual world. Death was just the beginning for us, and while some, like the Vasians, believed a person lived with their gods in the afterlife, only parts of their Soul used for magic, we held a different understanding. When you died, you were split between the High and Low—not just some immaterial piece—and you became part of the world again, as Souls should be, though inaccessible to most humans. It seemed the Vasians had embraced the concept of the High and Low, though for most it was merely a Sorcerous expression, rather than a Spiritual interpretation of our departed consciouses.

  And this is why I was so determined to access the High plane of Spirits, so far inaccessible to all. If the mind and consciousness were kept there, then access could mean bringing someone back. For all the wishing, however, my Grand Observatory was likely destroyed, for along with Pethya, for no one had even heard of it. Nevertheless, I did my best to not let it consume me, continuing to work with Feia and speak with the mercenaries, building rapport and learning more of the new ways. I’d grown used to isolating myself, even within the band, so it took some pointed effort to reverse my habits. But I came to enjoy Stanilo’s company especially, for he was a grounded, virtuous man who spoke his mind and bore no shame for it. It helped to keep me aligned. And the Dead knew I needed that.

  Excess Corruption paired with tormenting thoughts never helped one’s disposition, and I feared becoming a monster, a villain, as Feia hinted about back in Levanska.

  The fifth night in the mountains, we camped within an old stone ruin that must have once been a border fortification. It overlooked the western hills and valleys marking an end to the alpine conditions; for this, I was thankful. We sat around a large fire laughing and talking in high spirits, flames flickering up to a man’s waist, fueled by the many trees of the descending terrain. My Soulborne were at the structure’s perimeter, watching for wolves and Dead, but also keeping an eye out for a safe path down the mountain. Many of the men would have given Emalia thanks for her map and wise guidance through the mountains, for we all knew none of us could have done it as well as she, but she and Sovina kept to themselves. Emalia had been distant ever since her brush with death, and not just with me, but quiet to all.

  “Rumor has it she’s had a vision,” Stanilo muttered beside me with a meaningful look. “She saw something she didn’t like, I take it. Something about her and you.”

  I nodded, looking over to the two women of the Column at their own fire. I’d not spoken to anyone else about what I knew, but we were close to Drazivaska, and no easy solutions had presented themselves. But, to tell the truth, I was also simply beginning to feel spiteful. “Emalia confessed to Protis that she had received a vision in which she was ordered to continue with my execution. She also received knowledge of Pethya to sate her oath.”

  “She knows of your people?” He rubbed his whiskered jaw and grunted. “Hm. So she can take your heart then. Not so good news.”

  “If it comes to it, I will do what I must,” I said, staring into the fire.

  “As is expected, Daecinus. No one would ask you to let them open you up like a sacrificial bull, even if she’s had visions from Raizak.”

  I was going to keep silent, but with each passing day, my patience for the priestess’s religious excuse wore on me, and so I spoke, “It may not be a vision from her god.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does anyone understand the Column? The actual tower itself?” When he didn’t answer, I went on, “It is ancient—by your standards, at least—and was constructed with the aid of Sorcery. But the highest floor, which is normally off-limits to all but the highest priest, is virtually unknown to even Emalia, though it was where she received her first vision. Could there be Spirits there? Ones bound and hungry, looking for an unaware, unprotected mind to latch on to?”

  His brow shot up. “Is such a thing possible?”

  “It could be. I’ve come to understand much about Sorcery in this time, but there are still gaps.”

  “You told her this?”

  “I told Sovina.”

  He nodded, looking troubled. “If she’s possessed and not an oracle after all… The men won’t like that.”

  “No, I would guess not.” I crossed my arms and glanced up toward the two women. Sovina was leaning in, whispering something, but it seemed Emalia was hardly paying attention. She was watching me instead. So I met her gaze and waited for her to look away. She did, soon enough. “When the time comes, Stanilo, I will defend myself, and I would ask that you and your men either help me or stay out of my way. I cannot promise their safety with my Soulborne or Spells.”

  “Can you protect yourself if Sovina has a blade to your neck before you can manage a Spell? She’s a sharp one, that Column-sworn. Good with a blade as any druzhina I’ve ever seen.”

  “Could you?”

  He took in a deep breath and shrugged. “No one can do much with steel to skin, vulnerable like that. In a proper duel, aye, I’d have her. Speaking of which, see that saber of hers? That there’s a Column blade. They say it cuts Sorcery and flesh alike.”

  “I’ve seen her face the Dead, and it did nothing beyond expectations.”

  “Hm. Maybe it’s only when the gods need it to?”

  Or perhaps it is a story made for warriors to fear. As such, I shall even the field with a tale of my own. “I cannot ask you to help me, Stanilo. I understand the situation too well for that but do consider that if I die, my Soulborne will kill every living thing they see. Without one to command them, they are loosed like wild beasts.” It was not exactly true, for they would follow my orders after my death for some time, then be loosed. But the warriors need not know that now.

  He grimaced and stretched his hands out before the fire, staring past the fingers into the flames. “If it were up to me, the one who first draws a blade earns the band’s anger. But it isn’t up to me.”

  “Can you convince the one who it is?”

  We looked over to Oskar, leaning back against a large piece of crumbling stone, snoring loudly as men around him joked and grinned over warmed rations. “I’ll have a chat with him, aye.”

  I nodded and thanked him. That was all I could ask for, given the nature of the situation. I was, after all, asking them to sacrifice their own future profits from a gods-ordained cause just for me, and while I had no misgivings about the value I possessed and danger I posed, these were mercenaries, after all. Little except money and glory mattered much to them.

  And, in an odd, roundabout fashion, I understood their thinking entirely. I had once been far more narrow-minded than they, obsessed and focused on revenge over all else. Such purpose had seen lands ravaged, towns burned, and armies slaughtered and turned to Dead to fuel my mission of justice. It was not a time I wished to return to.

  With this thought lingering in my mind, I waded into the embrace of sleep, nightmares of razed cities and echoing screams to carry me through the night.