Music is The Experiment from the Beyond: Two Souls soundtrack. Play it!

******

I immediately check Gilbert's pulse. It's weaker than usual, but steady and rhythmic; his fainting bout is probably caused by mild asphyxia. Suddenly, I feel a soft, chilling breeze caressing the nape of my neck. I stand up and narrow my eyes at the darkness—there should be no trace of a wind down here. The sensation is similar to what I'd felt when I had first stepped into the scrinaius. Only more...ancient. Sinister.

A voice hisses in the darkness: "Use it."

My mouth goes dry; all my senses go numb. This isn't happening—no, can't be happening. My eyes dart about wildly. Without the light of the torch, my enhanced sight is limited in the darkness.

"Use the spark forming in you. Wield it; embrace it." The voice is grating and raspy, a voice of nightmares.

I look at Gilbert, his form lying helplessly on the ground. He'd saved my life once from the crossbow. Now it's my turn to return the favour—basic honour amongst men, even if we're just squires. Attempting to calm myself, I imagine myself to be observing my figure from an omniscient point above me, so that I can pretend that the situation isn't as terrifying as it seems. It works just the tiniest bit.

"Use it!" snarls the voice. Maybe I can stall for a little longer. Hopefully, an idea will come to me so that I can get the two of us out of this scenario. Alive.

"Use what?" I say aloud. "And who are you?"

"Prove to me that you have the spark, and perhaps I shall let you and your pathetic friend live."

"What spark?"

"The spark. Show me your power," it growls. "The power when you touched the alatrigne."

I slowly crouch for the torch. Maybe an improvisation on the flammable material at the end could provide some illumination.

"Use it!" It's as if the voice has formed into a ball of solid mass, smashing into me and flinging me towards the wall. As I slam into the hard slab of stone, a wave of icy coldness washes throughout my body, sourcing from the small of my back and spreading throughout every single muscle. The feeling is much worse than the hardest winters I'd ever experienced. I struggle to fight the winds; it keeps me very effectively pressed against the wall. I'm scarcely able to breath. "Use it!"

I feel the grip of the winds tightening around my neck. Thoughts race through my head—what abilities does it want me to show? A compelling one like Gilbert's? I'd do anything to save my hide right now. Unfortunately, by choking me, all that is allowed out of my throat are incomprehensible pleads and desperate gasps for air.

"You are far stronger than that!" Its grip tightens. Dark spots pirouette across my vision; I feel my limbs slackening. I don't have much time before I black out completely. Desperate, I allow emotions to overtake me, hoping that it can somehow help me out of this predicament. I feel it condensing, taking shape somehow, ready to unleash its power...

A whip of shadows lashes out of nowhere.

The wind retracts just a little, enough to allow me to regain my breath. The voices hisses angrily. "Interesting, but that's not what I was looking for, my dear."

Abruptly, the winds return with a vengeance. I try to squirm and struggle and kick the unseen force; nothing is working. Nothing. My insides feel as though they are dissolving into nothingness.

"Use it!"

This time, I know that whatever fight I put up will prove futile. I bite my tongue, reminding myself that even in a last stand, a knight never shows his fear. I also welcome the physical pain, instead of the emotionally crippling feeling inside me. As a last resort, I pray to my patron, hoping that in the midst of hopelessness, he can give me something to latch onto.

"You're the Champion of Pst. Bronicus!" the voice roars. "Do you need me to help ignite your power?"

Almost immediately as the words are spoken, a warm sensation starts in my gut. At first, it is soothing, a nice contrast to the frostiness on my back. But then, it proves to be more of an adversary rather than a sanctuary—the warmth heats up to an unbearable boiling point, making me feel like I would burst into flames any moment. A scream and a half-sob escapes my lips. The heat and cold are fighting against each other, push and pull, rise and fall, raging a war of pure agony within me.

Yet, some small, conscious part of my mind is still alive. It claws its way through the numbing pain, telling me to use my flurry of emotions to my advantage—to embrace the growing anger within, harness and shape it into a weapon more deadly than any mortal blade.

I do so.

It's as though the anger is at first a shapeless, writhing blob in my mind, waiting for dexterous hands to shape it—mine. It slowly takes on a form. Still wild, still indiscernible, but it is being controlled.

If it's the spark—the fire the voice wants, then it's fire that it will get.

With a roar, I direct all my rage towards the unknown speaker, somehow managing to ignore the logical part of my brain, which is reasoning that raw feelings are not a weapon. They are abstract; I need to fight back physically, not try to intimidate others by sheer anger.

Something flares before me, forcing me to close my eyes.

The winds pull back instantly. I collapse onto the ground, trying to catch my breath. The flare dies down quickly; my eyes snap up to catch a last linger of it.

A ball of fire, burning in mid-air.

Then it's gone. Everything, including the voice and the winds.

I get up, body shaking so bad that I have to grab the alatrigne behind me for support. What just happened? I think, almost breaking into a sob. Gilbert emits a groan.

I revert my attention towards him. Help him now, think later. Using the little strength I have left, I manage to lift him up and throw him over my shoulders. His skin is strangely icy, just like the wall when the winds slammed me into it. Perhaps I should take him to see a Galennus.

With these buzzing, superficial thoughts, I exit the room. One stark memory of the incident fastens onto my head though, refusing to let go, echoing relentlessly.

The memory of the voice—Diomedes. It has to be. There's no one else who fits the puzzle.

********

By the time I manage to haul Gilbert and I up the steps, it's all I can do to stop myself from collapsing in relief when dim candlelight greets me. I've finally reached the top, but there's something wrong with the atmosphere. Where there should be quiet and stillness, save for the occasionally scurrying feet of rodents, hasty and decisive footsteps can be heard. Heading towards me.

Emitting a low hiss, I dodge into the shadows. I quietly set Gilbert onto the floor, thoroughly feeling the strain on my shoulders. The torch long abandoned, my hands are free to defend, brawl, or to do whatever is necessary in the face of imminent danger. I carefully reach for Miraterciel; I feel tense energy gathering in my body, which is coiled like a ready-to-strike viper. The footsteps come closer. I press myself against the wall, ensuring that shadows conceal my figure, preparing myself for the moment to spring.

Hollering a shrill war cry, I lunge out.

Fortunately, my target's reflexes are fast, and so is mine. He takes one staggering step backwards; my blade stops short at his throat, a faint stream of blood drizzling out from the shallow cut across the pale veins. Dark, angry eyes pierce through me.

"Squire Rutherland, what is the meaning of this?" Sir Eldric's voice rings out.

I quickly withdraw my blade and sheath it in one fluid motion. My head bobs into acknowledgement of my superior. By now, I'm much too tired to bow.

"Squire Falkner has fainted," I croak, gesturing at the figure sprawled haphazardly down the steps. Behind the captain, the metal hauberks and the red-and-gold tabards of the Royal Guard come into focus, as well as the blue-grey silks of two or three Quinnians. "Sir," I add as an afterthought.

Captain Eldric nods in response. He signals for his men to pick up Gilbert; they brush past me without so much as sparing a glance. The Quinnians, on the other hand, seem appalled by my appearance. I can only imagine what they're taking in right now—a tall, lithe boy, standing as though he was used to having more strength, with his tunic in tatters, revealing the layers beneath and the ugly brand at the collarbone, topped with dishevelled hair and a wild, frenzied look in the eyes. Only the guards, extremely familiar with gore, treat me as though I'm no more than a speck of dust in the eyes.

A billowing cloth wraps around me. It's Sir Eldric draping his scarlet cloak around my shivering form. The cold from the winds, the wall and Gilbert's skin is still clinging onto me, the burning sensation in my stomach long gone. I take it gratefully. However, I'm too exhausted to say anything with proper decorum, so I just stick with a mumbled 'thank you'.

"I gather that you are too tired to answer," is his response, "and I won't force you to tell me happened right this instant. But I'll make it clear to you that once you've recuperated and gotten enough rest, I'm going to have to ask you questions as to what you and Squire Falkner were doing in off-limits territory. In short, you'd better mentally prepare yourself."

I nod wearily. The guards have easily hauled Gilbert up into a four-man wheelbarrow form. Their light armour seems to enable them to manoeuvre about with more ease, compared to when one is dressed up in a full set of battle armour. My eyelids feel so heavy. If only I could just curl up in peaceful slumber here...

A gloved hand squeezes my injured shoulder. Biting down the pain, I am jolted awake. "I'm not having you falling unconscious too. It's cumbersome enough for my men to carry one Champion, let alone two," says Sir Eldric.

I decide to study his uniform, concentrating on something to stall my fatigue. Fairly simple, light armour—similar to his underlings—the main form of protection comes as a hauberk that is cut at the knees. A pair of spaulders rest on the shoulders; his feet are slipped into hob-nailed boots. In fact, he looks almost like a normal guard. If not for the cloak around my shoulders, which is the symbol of his position, and the way he radiates power, anyone could mistake him as a regular soldier.

"Come." He tugs my arm when the rest of the guards signal that they're are ready to go. The Quinnians shuffle into a protective form at the head of the line, leading the way out of the catacombs.

Half-limping, half-dragged on by the captain, we linger a little further behind to accommodate my aching feet. At long last, we reach the hallway, out of the library, out of the House of Knowledge, and out of the scrinaius. Captain Eldric begins to bark out sharp orders at his men. "Vanryse, Hallmere, Salin, you three take Squire Falkner to see a Galennus. Firloun, Crasse, you two go back with the Quinnians to check if that passageway has been sealed."

After a cacophony of salutes and 'Yes sir!'-s, the guards scatter according to the directions provided by their superior. "If you'd like, I'll escort you to your room," offers Captain Eldric. Some of the sternness has melted out of his voice, replaced with gruff sympathy.

"Thank you," I mutter, knowing that it's his way of apologising for his unintended harshness with me back in the catacombs. "Thank you, sir."

He casts a worried glance at me. Sir Eldric gently takes me by the elbow, lending me some support. I allow some of my weight to lean into his body, reducing the soreness in each painful step. Perhaps this is what it feels like to have a father who cares, who is willing to lend you his undying support in no matter what you do. I almost giggle hysterically at the thought, stopping myself only because I know that it would be an unfitting display of behaviour for a young man.

Beside me, I feel the Captain's skin breaking into a cold sweat. I instantly know what—or rather, who, the worry is for.

Me.

*******

A/N: Oh yes, that's our infamous Big Bad making yet another unseen appearance here. So, what do you think of Constantine's 'accidental' abilities? I also have big news: I'm entering 'Constantine' for the Wattys 2015! I don't expect to win anything, but please, vote, comment and share if you can! It would really mean the world to me :)

Perinus -- Country where Constantine lives in, has Ravürk to its west, Thiruthia to the east and Belius to the south; main exports are gold and timber. Capital city: Cordair.