Music is Aiden's Theme from the Beyond: Two Souls soundtrack. Play it!

******

"'E's comin' round!"

I slowly open my eyes. They shut themselves close when a flash of bright light assaults them. With a groan, I manage to get myself into an upright position. A strong stench of herbs and spices fills my nasal cavity, making me cough.

"Drink," says a fatherly voice. "You'll feel better."

Disorientated, I resist as the unknown person forces a disgusting brew down my throat. I want to gag, but steady hands keep the cup firmly propped against my chin, drizzling the despicable liquid down my gullet.

When I've finally drained the mug of its contents, I wipe my mouth furiously. I try to work up a spit, just to get some of the foul taste out of my mouth. Eventually, the world around me solidifies-I'm able to discern the shapes of a palace physician and his scrawny assistant boy.

"How do you feel now?" asks the physician.

I massage my temples to dull the throbbing ache in my head. "Groggy." My voice is harsh and cracked, as though someone had run a knife through it many times.

"Don't make any sudden movements. Breathe slowly," he advises in a sympathetic tone.

"He's awake?"

My father sounds slightly panicked. I swivel my head towards the direction of his voice. His figure looks dark and intimidating, currently closing the distance between me and the door with frightening speed. His face has an expression of spectacular annoyance.

"Galennus Asa," says my father, "how is he?"

Fixing the crooked spectacles on the bridge on his nose, the Galennus-another term for physicians born under Pst. Galen, the healer-peers at me with sharp, scrutinising eyes. "So far, there seems to be no visible injury on the limbs. However, I would truly appreciate it if you would allow me to remove his tunic, just to see if there are any internal injuries."

I gulp nervously. I was so close to having my secret revealed. Only Father's intervention must have prevented it.

"No." My father's voice is as hard as a rock, which is usually enough to deter anyone from speaking up against him. However, Galennus Asa doesn't seem to show any signs of relenting.

"No?"

"No."

A pregnant pause hangs in the air; tension builds between them. "Lord Rutherland," says the Galennus, his voice trembling ever so slightly with anger, "if you do not allow me to perform thorough body-checking on your son, then I will not be able to pinpoint the source of the collapse. As far as I know, Squire Rutherland has always been in a perfectly healthy state of body and mind. There must be a reason to this sudden fainting. And there is a stab wound to his shoulder. While I have faith in the Pietists that it will recover quickly, a few applied bandages to it won't do much harm."

Instinctively, my fingers reach for the wound Gilbert had given me earlier. I feel rough ridges under layers of wool and linen; a dry scab has already formed over it. I flex my shoulder experimentally-it still aches acutely. The stab wound must be very deep.

"My dear esteemed Galennus, every action has a reasoning behind it." If I were the physician, I should cower immediately and give in to this stubborn lord. But like a faithful servant of Pst. Galen, whose greatest desire is to help the sick and injured, he presses on, insisting that I should have a full medical check-up.

"Lord Rutherland, I am trying to help your son." The physician's words almost come out as a hiss.

"Galennus Asa, you will forget that this has ever happen, and you will immediately discharge Squire Rutherland from your care." If I didn't know better, I'd say that Father's words would have a reverse effect on anyone, no matter his status.

Understanding crosses the Galennus's face. "Ah, I think I understand your concerns now, milord."

"You do?" Father's question is thinly underlined with suspicion. I hold my breath.

"I recall that your son was Scarred by an Underling, somewhere on the sternum. It was recorded when he first registered as a squire, no?"

Father and I exhale in relief. Being Scarred is the excuse my father has constructed for me to avoid being seen in a state of undress-Scars will befall the onlooker with a curse if the Pietists' blessings aren't obtained.

"Rest assured, my lord, I am one of the few qualified Galenni who can take a look at the Scar without risking my life." My jaw quavers; Father looks taken aback. He promptly glares at me, silently accusing me of bringing the collapsing incident upon myself. "So, may I?" Galennus Asa moves, about to strip me of my clothing. I coil back and give him a reproachful stare.

Father grabs the physician's hand with a forced smile, attempting to keep the steeliness out of his expression. "That won't be necessary, Galennus Asa. Constantine seems much better now."

I quickly take the hint and swing my legs off the bed. To show that I'm completely fine, I jump onto my feet quickly. Too quickly-my head still feels a little heavy. I nearly stumble, but just manage to right myself up and give a less-than-convincing smile to the physician. "My father is correct, Galennus Asa. I feel much better now."

The physician looks doubtful. At long last, he relents with a nod. He fumbles around his worktable, searching for something in the midst of numerous concoctions. Finally, his fingers pick a bottle filled with a bilious-green liquid. "Here's a remedy you should take every morning, just to be safe. It stimulates the organs, reducing chances of you collapsing on a daily basis."

I take the bottle from him and give a bow. "Thank you, Galennus Asa."

He gives a weary smile. "Have a good day, Lord Rutherland and Squire Rutherland." He ushers us towards the exit of the room.

As the door closes behind us, I can hear the snivelling assistant of the physician gossiping in a hushed tone: "Are ye sure that's the Champion? Seems a bit off to me, 'e did."

"Hold your tongue, Leigh. Never speak ill of the Champions," chides his master.

"'E's a bit odd, that's all. Being so against the idea o' 'im stripping 'is shirt. Ain't got no one 'oo wants to see anyways."

"Leigh," warns Galennus Asa. The boy shuts up instantly.

My cheeks pale while I stolidly walk behind Father. As soon as we are out of sight, he pulls me down into a dusty hallway, lonely sunlight sieving through gloomy windows. "What happened?"

I roll my tongue in my mouth, unsure of how 'I had a vision' would sound in my father's ears. "I'm not sure," I say, which is half-truth-the vision I had was foggy and unreal. If not for the throbbing pain in my head and the hammering of my heart against my chest, I would dismiss it as a fabrication of my mind.

"There must be something," he insists.

I pretend to ponder for a moment. "Perhaps it was the after-effects of the Mark," I offer.

"The Champion of Pst. Ailith didn't collapse after he was Marked," counters Father.

"But at that time, I, his counterpart, had not been Marked yet."

"Then why didn't he collapse today?"

Father seems to have trumped me with that sentence. "Or maybe it's because the added activities to my schedule has taken its toll on me?" I offer sheepishly.

I want to crumble at his petulant glare. "Then make sure it does not happen again. You put both of us at risk here, collapsing just like that."

"You have my word, Father."

He doesn't reply at once. When he finally speaks, I nearly jump in fright-why am I so easily rattled? "How was the Marking experience?" he asks, faint concern showing in his voice.

I look at him. Why is he bothering with my feelings now, of all time and places? "Fine," I say cautiously, not daring to reveal the truth.

"Good," he answers vaguely. The normally icy glint in his eyes is melting a little now, hinting at pity for...me? Yes, that should be it.

It's frightening.

"A lot hinges on you now, Constantine," continues my father. He doesn't seem like himself now. Or perhaps this is his true self-only when he's around me does he draw up a façade. "Be it the fate of the world, or on a smaller scale, the fate of our family."

I'm not quite sure how to respond to this.

"There's a lot hanging on the choices you make." His voice is tinged with sadness. I hardly register the emotion in my head, for his words makes me feel like mountains are being piled onto my shoulders. All at once, I experience a flurry of emotions-guilt, anger, sadness, confusion.

I close my eyes, picturing myself in my own head, mopping up all messy emotions, fortifying the wall I use to keep them in. This technique has proven effective in helping me to keep check of my feelings. No use to show my insecurities at this time.

The cathedral bell tolls. Four rings.

"I suppose it's time for you to attend the research session with Quinnian Allura?" asks Father in a brisk, business-like way. I nod.

"Then I'll be taking my leave first." As soon as the words leave his mouth, he wheels around and speeds off down the hallway, disappearing into darkness. I begin to head towards the opposite direction. A sudden realisation dawns upon me-I am experiencing a mound of unpredictable emotions. Only, they're so powerful that they make me feel numb instead of volatile.

Nobody notices as I deliver a punch into the wall beside me, my colliding fist creating a miniature crater in stone.

Of course, no one would notice anything I do, since I strive to make myself as anonymous as possible. "It's what you have to do to survive here, Constantine," I tell myself fiercely.

But even as I leave the hallway, the cracked wall, and the darkness, my excuse for embracing loneliness doesn't seem very convincing.

******

In the outer ring, the watchtowers guarding the fortress constantly have the warmth of light flickering through the slits of windows. On every watchtower, guards would take shifts, staring vigilantly into the horizon, or playing a game of dice.

All save one.

There is one watchtower that has been abandoned for years, for so long that everyone has forgotten how one should enter it. But even if anyone knows how to enter it, they wouldn't.

Because on certain lonesome nights, when the sky is at its darkest, when the winds are so chilly that they seep through bones, a piercing, eerie cry can be heard from that tower. It's located towards the south of the castle fortress, facing the Forest of Mellitus, where ancient, legendary Creatures are said to be roaming the area.

The cries would shake anyone to their very core, encouraging them to flee from the unknown howler. Guards who could not abandon their posts would huddle together for comfort, hoping to never meet the fabled monster.

The Banshee of Hangman's Tower.

It's called the Hangman's Tower because it used to be the place where executions took place, until the common folk decided that they wanted their share of the gore. Then the executions started to take place in the town square. It was converted into a watchtower for a short while, but was duly abandoned after soldiers claimed that it was unnecessary, as no man nor army could enter the Forest of Mellitus and survive to be able to lay siege upon the Castle Larstand from the rear.

The legend plays in mind as I make my way towards the south wing of the castle Mellitus. For years, I've hardly seen anyone making rounds about this part, leaving it to a state of neglect and ruin. Grass grows wildly and haphazardly, bound to tickle my legs if I am not wearing good, solid boots and warm breeches; the bricks of the fortress are crumbling and cracked in places, a once-majestic structure gone to waste; the forest beyond looks wild and untamed, the features silhouetted by the faint moonlight veiled with mystery.

I enter the fortress by way of a creaky door; my ears prick up at the echoes the heels of my boots make. Ascending a flight of stairs, I hear a shuffle behind me. I dismiss it as a hallucination when I turn back to observe the distilled darkness, which holds nothing within except my own fear and shadow.

I find my way by sheer instinct. After a series of twists and turns, I stop to tap my foot on the floor. The hollow clacks confirm that I'm at the right place.

I stoop to press at a slight deformity on the floor. It gives way; a hidden trapdoor underneath me slides open. Looking behind my shoulder to make sure no one is around-the area has been abandoned for years, but that's no reason to be careless in covering up tracks-I begin to head down the stairs that lead into Hangman's Tower.

I'd stumbled across it by accident. It was one of the days that Father had decided to make one of his unprecedented trips here. His sharp remarks and criticism that time had shaken me much more than I usually permitted them to. So, during the night, I was urged to take a stroll about here. I'd ended up exploring the fortress, seeing as there were no guards to prevent me from doing so.

My lips curve into a faint smile as I remember how I'd found the long-forgotten trapdoor. I'd tripped over that deformity on the floor, cursing in a fashion that would make the Pietists blush, when the secret passage opened before me. I was aware of the danger I might run into. Curiosity had won me over though.

The stairs start to curve upwards, spiralling giddily. I place a hand on the wall for support. It seems to reach a dead end, until I shove the ceiling above me.

The interior of Hangman's Tower enters my eyes. It is oval-shaped; whatever furnishings that might have been here before had been stripped away, leaving a few eccentric relics behind-a rusted Pear of Anguish, a Knee Splitter, a pair of Crocodile Shears. A single window allows the moonlight to enter, making the dried-blood splattered on the walls-as well as the few pieces of splintered bone-seem much more grotesque than usual.

A chill runs down my spine. People were tortured here, killed and executed.

If anyone found out my secret, that would be my fate.

I shake my head, making my way to look out of the window instead of pondering on the many 'what ifs'. It is fairly wide and tall; I pull myself up onto the sill, staring out into the darkness beyond, calming my nerves. The night is clear and beautiful-the sky is studded with stars twinkling in and out of sight. The acres of ancient, powerful trees stretching across the forest seem to hold an air of intrigue about them, making me wish that one day, just maybe, I could escape into the wild. I could flee from my problems, away from the madness of the world. I give an amused chuckle at my fanciful ideas.

Before letting loose a piercing howl.

All the stress I'd been feeling for the past few weeks is let out. As soon as the cry dies out, I give a maniacal laugh, one that echoes of irony and angst. I always come here whenever I feel like I'm breaking down-it's one of the few things that keeps me sane. My coping mechanism. The fact that there are many rumours that the area is haunted makes me sure that no one would ever find me out.

I feel cold tears streaming down my cheeks. I know better than to wipe them away, for they would just return with a vengeance. Slowly, I feel my burden begin to lighten, the heavy boulder settling in my heart beginning to move the slightest bit. I just sit there, with only the puffs of my breath and the rubbing of cricket wings accompanying me.

A voice suddenly rings out, the tone disbelieving and surprised: "The Banshee of Hangman's Tower?"

******

A/N: Media is a sketch of Quinnian Allura.

Dedicated to seventhstar for being one of the most amazing people on Wattpad! If you're interested in magic system deeply rooted in astrology and tarot readings, go check out her book, 'The Hall of Games'.

Pst. Galen - the healer; patron of physicians and practitioners of medicine.

P.S. If you want to find out what's a Pear of Anguish or a Crocodile Shear, click on the external link (Warning: if you scream at the slightest bit of blood, I'd advise you to not click on the link).