A/N: Media on the side is a hand-drawn map of the world by yours truly (please ignore the general tininess of it).

******

For the next three days, I clutch onto my knife like a lifeline. I'd like to say that I carry it around with me so that there's an immediate opportunity for me to show it to my siblings when I run into them, just as I promised. But the sickening reality is that I'm...afraid.

Afraid of those visions. Afraid of Allura and Galennus Asa. Afraid of the world.

At least with Miraterciel—or a replica of it—I feel safer. Less likely to be intruded. The dagger is also small, easy to conceal beneath the folds of my clothing, making it ideal for me to carry it at all times. Squires aren't actually allowed to carry weapons of any sort save for during training. However, we are permitted to take knives, though most squires elect not to, finding the weapon difficult to wield due to its lack of power and reach.

Today is Amcreday, the day of the assessment. I, along with all the other potential candidates, are in the training field, hovering about uncertainly as the older knights prepare for the assessment.

"Constantine!"

My eyes widen in surprise as my siblings scurry over to my position by the sword stands. Isolde lags behind, trying her best to not get her pretty blue dress stained by mud and filth.

"Constantine," repeats Eric, slightly winded. We now have the attention of all the squires and knights on the field. I shift on my feet, unused to the attention. "We have something to ask you."

I know that this is about the gift. Clapping one hand each on Eric and William's shoulders, I beckon all of them to follow me, towards the empty space behind the sword stands. The squires and the knights know me well enough to keep a wide berth around me, understanding that I want privacy.

"Here," I say while pulling out the knife from my boot. Eric takes it gingerly and unsheathes it; William and Ronald inspect it with mild interest; Isolde, in spite of her grievous indisposition towards steel or sharp objects of any sort, squints at it from afar.

"Does it have a name?" asks Eric. He eyes the blade suspiciously, as though it might cut into his very soul.

"Miraterciel," I answer bluntly. I await my siblings' reaction.

At first, they almost believe it—their jaws drop open, and their eyes bulge out like a fish's. Slowly, the shocked expressions subside to give way to scepticism. "Really?" Ronald asks mockingly.

My lips curl sardonically. "I didn't believe her either, if that's what you're asking. Apparently the knife is passed down from generation to generation." I leave out 'along the female line'.

Eric toys with the blade casually, observing every angle of it with a keen eye. "It definitely doesn't look like how Miraterciel is illustrated in books," he says slowly.

"Yes," I reply briefly. In ancient manuscripts, Miraterciel is depicted as a knife with an ornate gold handle, a silver blade that gleams like a fang, and has a gem-stone embedded in the pommel. Nothing like the knife William has taken from Eric.

"Interesting." Eric wrenches the knife gently from William's grip to return it to its sheath. "But that's not why we came here."

"Really?" I ask, surprised.

"It's true that we want to know about your little 'gift'," says Isolde, flecking off a scrap of non-existent mud off her dress, "but ultimately it is none of our concern. It's between you and Mother."

"Then why did you come to see me—on my assessment day?" I fight to keep the growl out of my voice at Isolde's insolent tone.

"Ah, it's about that," says Eric. He licks his dry lips, rubs his eye, gnaws on the insides of his cheeks—doing anything to stall the impending topic. It's his little tics when he's nervous, or when he's about to present someone with less-than-desirable news. My eyes narrow; I press my lips together.

"Mother wants you to drop out of the assessment," says Ronald, stepping in for his eldest brother. Trust Ronald to deal out brutal orders like that without the slightest remorse or hesitation.

"What?" I cry out. "Doesn't Father have anything to say about it?"

William frowns uncertainly. "We haven't seen Father in a few days..."

Perhaps he is busy tackling the issue of the so-called imperialism stand of the Oriental Continents. Fair enough. But what had spurred Mother to make such a ridiculous statement? "Did Mother say why?"

"Something about how you'll be in trouble if you do so," says Isolde, stifling a yawn.

"In specific terms, please." I give Isolde my iciest glare. She acknowledges it with a derisive raise of her brows.

"We don't know," says Eric, recovering his composure. He steps in between us, an attempt to ease the tension between his sisters. "She didn't precisely state her reasons. I was surprised too, seeing as Mother knows that a lot of your future hinges on this..."

"Well, I certainly can't withdraw myself from the assessment now," I resume with spectacular annoyance. "For one, Father would be absolutely furious. Two, it's too late to do anything about it."

"That's what we told her." Isolde rolls her eyes. "But would she listen? Of course not! Now we've come all the way here for nothing, and I've got stains on my new dress because of your precious training field." Her tone is all mockery, no more restraint holding it back. My fingers curl inwards.

"First of all, this is not my 'precious training field'." My fists tremble by my sides, tingling with the urge to drag the nearest person towards me and start punching their guts out. "Next, if you didn't want to come, you didn't have to come at all! Just ask Eric or William or Ronald. I'll happily take any one of them rather than you."

"Glad you think so," Isolde replies cuttingly. "At least I lead a normal life."

That's a low blow. Even she realises it—her eyes widen in shock. Eric shoots her a warning glance, while I fight to keep my emotions under control. I imagine my head being on fire, the dancing lights of orange and red and yellow untameable and wild, spreading throughout the area; I imagine that a blanket is smothering it, keeping the flames under control.

"Constantine," Eric says once I've gone silent for too long. "Are you alright?"

I roll my tongue in my mouth, as though it has been stiff for many years. "Yes, of course I am."

Isolde has retreated behind her brothers, a little sorry for what she'd just said. Not sorry enough to apologise to me though. It doesn't matter; all she said was truth.

"Why couldn't Mother come to deliver the message herself?" I ask, determined to move on from the previous topic.

Eric's shoulders sag in relief. "Influenza."

I nod. She always comes down with it every single time she is in Castle Larstand—an oddity of an already odd mother. "I'll be going off then, if there's nothing else you've got to say."

We all scramble out of the shadows and into the sunlight, the warm rays stroking my skin like a long-lost lover. The squires and knights give me strange looks; maybe they heard the quarrelling all the way from here. My cheeks flush at the thought.

William and Ronald begin to chase each other out of the field; Isolde immediately traipses over the slightly sloshy grass, grateful that she can finally get out of the danger-zone for her clothing; Eric remains by my side, a thoughtful look gleaming in his eyes.

Turning to meet my gaze, the lines of his mouth curves upwards gently. Somehow, his gentle expression makes me think that this would be what Father looks like. At least, if he bothered to smile. "Good luck," he encourages quietly, before slipping away, trailing behind my other siblings.

A horn sounds, the blare roaring in my ears, indicating that the assessment will start within roughly five minutes. I walk towards the centre of the field, where plenty of the candidates are already gathered.

In my peripheral vision, a shadow passes. I snap my head around to search for a passing person. Yet there's nothing but air. More delusions. I really need to control my mind. Somehow though, I have the feeling akin to when I was walking out of the second laundry the other day, after my conversation with Father.

A feeling of somebody watching me.

******

"Group five—Gharthy, Rutherland, Hailern, Penthorn and Brathaeus."

The speaking knight—Sir Evan, Gilbert's assigned knight, has a clear, steady baritone, which rings out perfectly to reach the ears of every single candidate on the field. The knights and squires whom I am grouped with give me a collective glare.

The Knights of Elder had decided that we'll be divided into groups of five to begin the various assessments. At each check-point—for instance, archery—there will be two knights assigned to mark out progress. A well-thought out and efficient system. I wonder if Sir Isaac had contributed to the brainstorming.

In truth, I'm only listening with half an ear to Sir Godfrey's briefing. In my mind, the sensation of being watched by an unknown person continues to press on me. I reach down as though to scratch my leg. When my fingers find the cold hilt of Miraterciel, instant relief sweeps over me. I straighten myself, attempting to concentrate on the briefing.

"And may Pst. Bronicus and Pst. Ailith be with you!" Sir Evan cries. The incumbent cheers following his wake boom around me; the reverberating remnants of a sounding gong hums in the air. Evidently I missed a lot.

The men begin to disperse. I realise that I have absolutely no idea of where I'm supposed to go. Fool! I tell myself. Fool for allowing yourself to be so easily distracted! To ask someone regarding my assignment would be immediate suicide in terms of pride and egoistic values, but to stand here like a dummy would have me ending up likewise.

"Rutherland!" A person claps his hand on my left shoulder. I try not wince from the impact it makes on my stab wound and bruises. Though significantly better, they've yet to completely recover. Slowly turning around with a forced smile, I acknowledge Sir Roderick Hailern with a nod. "Where are you going? We're up for the swords first."

Sir Roderick—or Roddy, as he is fondly addressed by his inner circle of friends—is fairly young, only three years older than me. He had been promoted to knight-ship about a year ago, a well-deserved title after years of slaving and bruising about. His light-brown hair, limp and dry, frames his thin face; his nose is too prominent for the sallow cheekbones.

"Yes, of course," I say in monotone, instantly dropping my smile when I see Roderick cringing at it. Behind him, his knightly companion, Sir Payton Brathaeus, as well as two other squires snicker, either at me just being me or at Sir Roderick and his poor attempt at trying to break the ice.

We head towards the sword-stands, a makeshift structure specially constructed for this day, different from the one we are familiar with. In silence. My teammates are obviously displeased at being lumped together in the same group. When we finally arrive (it's located in the farthest corner of the field) I am surprised at seeing a group of candidates already swaddled about the weapon stands.

"What are they doing here?" I exclaim. Sir Payton and the squires, Vaughan and Sam, shoot me dirty looks. Sir Roderick coughs apologetically.

"Squire Rutherland, weren't you listening to what Sir Evan said just now?" His expression reflects slight concern for my current state of mind. "We are to be grouped together and pitted against other groups."

"Oh," I say dumbly. This is Sir Isaac's doing—he knows that I have trouble cooperating with people. Or more precisely, people have trouble cooperating with me. This I am sure of.

"Group five, hurry up and leave your sorry tails behind!" yells Sir Evan. My teammates—save for Sir Roderick—send cutting glares at my way. I just wear a mask devoid of emotions, while internally, I'm praying fervently that I'll survive the day.

******

We've just finished the second assessment, a test of our trust in our teammates as well as our archery skills. Needless to say, my group has performed terribly in the two tests, all due to my frequent clashes with Sir Payton that disrupt the harmony.

Now we're returning the recurve bows to their respectful places. Outside, I look as calm and neutral as ever. Inside, I'm so frustrated, a bonfire ready to go up in flames. This is combat—my area of expertise. Why shouldn't the others let me direct them as I see fit? I know that I'm only sixteen in their eyes, but Pietists Above, I am a Champion of War! I should be leader, not Sir Payton.

My teammates are grinding their teeth as well—I see it in their stiff postures, their mechanical movements, their taut expressions. Once we place the weapons back, we re-emerge into the sunlight.

"You, better know your place," hisses Sir Payton from behind me. I work my jaw, turning around to face him. He's nearly half a head shorter than me, yet that doesn't stop him from looking at me straight in the eye.

"I do know my place," I retort coolly. "Do you know yours?"

I stop a smug grin from spreading across my face when he purples in anger. "You may be Champion, but for now you are a mere squire. You do not simply override—"

"Down!" another voice screams. Something slams into me, knocking all breath out of my lungs and flattening me against the ground. Sir Payton goes down along with me.

An arrow zips above, landing quite a distance away from the chaos. The person who made that shot must have immense strength, from the speed the shaft of wood flew through the air. He also would have deadly precision, for judging from the angle, the arrow would have pierced me dead in the centre of my heart. Champion or no, there are some wounds that are just too serious to be mended.

I take in a shuddering gasp and recollect myself. I roll sideways; there's no weight suppressing my body. Agilely, I leap onto my feet and scan for the person who had thrown himself onto me.

Or at least, I attempt to, for there is no one within close proximity.

Blinking my eyes in confusion, I search for Gilbert. He's standing roughly fifteen paces away from me, swaying precariously on his feet, face drained of colour. I lock eyes with him, demanding an answer. All he does is shake his head weakly.

He collapses to the ground.

I rush over to check his pulse—it's still normal, despite being somewhat unusually strong and fast. Hastily flinging one of his arms over my shoulder, I haul Gilbert onto his feet, attempting a human clutch, although the dead weight on me is slowing my movements. I have to get to the dais, see what had caused the mayhem.

Then I sense it before I see it—a sinister, malicious presence making a surprise attack on us. I dread turning towards the direction of the presence to confirm my suspicions, but I have to—it's my duty as Champion to protect everyone around me, even if they do not realise or appreciate it. As soon as I lay my eyes upon the cause of the ruckus, I feel my head beginning to sway once more, trying to absorb the ripples of pure, petrifying fear throughout my body. I nearly allow Gilbert to drop onto the ground once more.

Because on an elevated dais, amidst abandoned crossbows and quivers, stands a grey, translucent figure, garbed in a traditional Perinian military uniform. Its eyes are dead and unseeing, only focusing upon me, its target. As it moves, faint wisps trail behind it, capturing its motions, distilling it into one gruesome picture.

A ghost.

******

A/N: Remember to vote if you like, and comment if you don't like (or like!).

Dedicated to, larissajay super avid reader and crazy commentor/voter! Her angels are some of the best, and take some of your time to go check out her work 'Equinox'.

Scimitar -- A short sword with a curved blade that broadens towards the point.