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

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Father Alistaire's dry, melancholic tone does little to keep me awake throughout the whole ceremony.

I am kneeling before the main altar, which is situated on an elevated dais. The bishop's outline is before my eyes, rocking back and forth gently, as if he is going to faint anytime soon. Behind me, seated comfortably in the rows of benches in the nave, are the noblemen who came to pay their customary respects to a Champion of the Pietists. And hopefully to receive a blessing.

The ceremony had begun with a monotonous prayer from Father Alistaire, completed with an excerpt from the Book of Ritus. Now he is performing an elaborate ritual, repeatedly offering tributes to the Pietists and sprinkling lavender oil on my hair, doing little to ease my anxiety.

I eye a malicious-looking figure standing beside the bishop. He is garbed in a well-cut yet sturdy jerkin, showing off his bulky build almost too nicely. The Royal Blacksmith, the only person qualified in Perinus to imbue Champions with their Marks. He too, seems to wish that the ceremony can be done and over with as soon as possible. His fingers wrap around the handle of the poker with an iron-grip, making me sweat in the layers of my tunics.

"Arise, Champion," intones the bishop.

I rise shakily at his command, with both arms pinned down against my sides, holding back whatever nervousness I am feeling. Father Alistaire makes signals swiftly with his hand. The blacksmith steps forward, the branding iron warmed up and ready to go.

The bishop now raises an eyebrow at me, his eyes sliding towards Gilbert, who is standing to my far right. He's silently asking if I require Gilbert's assistance to keep myself under control. I shake my head slowly. Father Alistaire acknowledges my response with a nod, though he gives me a doubtful look.

Father Alistaire gestures for me to expose my left collarbone. I oblige him, wondering if he would see the bit of linen wrapped around my chest. Onto the patch of skin that is supposed to be branded, he applies a thick layer of dry red paste—a mixture of clay, herbs and other unknown substances, all blessed to receive the goodwill of the Pietists.

The bishop takes a step back, nodding for the blacksmith to begin the Marking process. The man closes far too quickly. "I won't lie, this is going to hurt," whispers the blacksmith. He presses the brand onto my skin.

My vision splits into two.

******

I hang suspended in the air, feeling very surreal. My body seems to be floating away; yet my conscious, my being, is hovering in the space of the cathedral, a watchful spirit guarding the inhabitants of the building.

I see my own body being branded with the Champion's Mark. Its expression is pained; its skin has turned into a sickly pallor. But it manages to contain itself, stifling a scream in the throat. The blacksmith's brows are drawn together in a frown; his eyes are cool and collected. He isn't a sadist—there is no pleasure in his expression as he watches the boy before him take in all the pain. He is, however, cold and methodical, like a surgeon performing his duty without any emotion.

My father lingers in the corner, observing me with an unreadable expression on his face. Gilbert's eyes are focused on the elaborate carvings on the transept above him. Perhaps he's afraid to know how his fellow Champion is faring.

At the same time, I am sure-footed on the ground, my hands curled into tight fists and my teeth ground together. I bite down on my tongue, preventing whatever pain I feel rising up my throat from transforming into an ear-piercing shriek. My skin is layered with a thin sheen of cold sweat; my body trembles ever so slightly with the effort to control myself.

My mind can't seem to stay straight, with one side watching the scene in the cathedral unfold from an omniscient angle, and the other being in the scene itself, fighting the pain.

My vision blackens entirely.

For a moment, I'm sure I've collapsed. But I soon realise that I'm trapped in total darkness, without a single sliver of light to guide my way. My eyes roam about, searching for a path to escape. When nothing happens, I start hyperventilating. I've never experienced anything like this before—my enhanced eyesight allows me to see in the darkest of surroundings. Save for this particular situation.

I take in deep, ragged breaths, trying to slow my heart rate and push away the oncoming panic. I close my eyes—perhaps it is all a figment of my over exercised imagination—and open them once more. Nothing. It's still the same.

No, not quite. Something is churning in the darkness, a deep vortex of different shades of black. Interesting. It slowly becomes more noticeable. Images start to form—blurred, unclear ones.

Now it makes sense—this is the 'test' Gilbert and Quinnian Allura were talking about.

A single scene stands out from the rest. It's the abandoned room in the second laundry. My father is leaning against the wall, expression dangerous and predatory. I start to watch the image with keen interest.

The image shifts closer towards me. And then, I am standing in the room. My eyes dart about, bewildered by the abrupt changes in my vision. My father takes a step towards me.

"You are a failure," he hisses.

It's like I'd just received a punch to my gut—a very hard one. I attempt to stagger backwards, only to find that my back is pressed up against the wall.

"You've failed to become the Bane of the king."

I blink confusedly. "What? Father, the trial period has only just begun. Sir Kendrick will choose the champion during Fernicia," I say. My voice seems to come from a distance; it sounds like a whispering ghost in my ears.

He takes another step closer. "Do you take me for a fool?" he snarls. "Don't you dare play dumb with me!"

"Father, I really—"

"Not only are you a failure, but you're a liar as well." I am hallucinating. That's what all this is. My father would never say something like that, even if he does think it. I am hallu—

"A proper waste of my time and energy, that's what you are." The words that pour out of his mouth are knives in my back; I cannot come up with the courage to defend myself.

Breathe, I tell myself. Control, don't let emotions overtake you.

My father smiles at me—a very first one for my eyes. However, holds no expression of joy. Instead, it looks rancorous, crazed. "I should just kill you right here and now."

His arms lunge for my throat.

I try to dodge. Shockingly, Father moves faster than me. He slams me against the wall, crushing my windpipe. I make a feeble attempt to fight back, but he's stronger than me too. His grip around my throat tightens every time I claw weakly at his hands.

My vision spirals; black spots dance before my eyes. Is this how I'm going to die? I wonder.

Everything falls away from me. The choking sensation is gone. My father, along with the room, shatters away into broken fragments, like glass being smashed upon a rock.

I gasp deeply, the icy breath a comfort to my lungs. My fingers skim over my throat, where my father had attempted to choke me. I find myself reliving that near-death experience.

Or an imagined near-death experience. Could it be a possible future for me? The thought is sickening.

"It's just a test, it's just a test..." I tell myself as the darkness cloaks me again. I wrap my arms around myself, giving the illusion of some sort of human comfort. Anything to distract myself from this.

Another image begins to form. I drop my arms and steel myself. I can handle this, now that I know what I'm up against. I glare at the oncoming vision; my shoulders square themselves.

This time, I'm on the training field, with a sword in my hand. Gilbert stands before me, poised to attack. Instinctively, I ready myself, tensing my muscles. I almost laugh at this situation—so all I have to do is beat Gilbert? Fair enough.

Gilbert thrusts his sword.

I raise my blade to block the attack. But like before, it's either because my actions are too slow, or Gilbert has gotten much faster, I fail to meet his blade. Its edge nicks my tunic, leaving a shallow cut on my left arm. I grow furious at myself, barely managing to keep the berserker in me under wraps. I continue to calculate my next move.

I decide to go on the offensive. I slash at my opponent's knees; his movements are a blur as he leaps out of the way. I take another stab at his shoulder, only to have him evade me.

I can no longer control the rage inside me. So I decide to let it out, hoping that it would give me strength to win this duel.

I'm dead wrong.

If anything, it makes me fail even more miserably. Gilbert's face taunts me, his lips growing into a smug grin as he dodges every single attack I launch upon him. "What's wrong now, the Champion of Pst. Bronicus getting angry? Tsk, tsk, it won't do."

I can no longer keep it up. All my strength has deserted me, so I set myself into a defensive position, waiting for his strikes to come. I pray to my patron that this change in strategy will work.

It doesn't.

Gilbert's offensive manoeuvres are too fast. I'm unable to parry them away or step out of reach; each swipe and jab leaves another cut on me. What is wrong with me? I scream at myself in my head. Hold your grip, Constantine!

Slowly, as my injuries multiply, I realise that he hasn't inflicted any major ones on me. Yet. He's trying to goad me into losing my temper once more. At this point though, I'm too exhausted to even think about fighting to save my life. So I do something ridiculous—something the real Constantine would never do.

I loosen my grip on the sword, letting it drop onto the ground.

I raise my hands up in surrender, forcing my eyes to meet his, praying that he will show me mercy. His eyebrows quirk up in surprise, but his grip on his sword does not loosen. "Do you know why you've lost?" he asks.

When he is met with silence, he gives me the answer: "It's because you're not a true Champion of Pst. Bronicus, you fraud."

Terror clutches at my heart; my limbs goes numb. I sink to my knees, arms dropped uselessly on my sides. He knows. Pst. Bronicus, he knows. He knows.

He knows my secret.

Gilbert grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head up. I look into his amber eyes—they are petrifying. Usually full of light and good humour, even when he's around me, they are now a sinking abyss of dull yellow. "But there's another reason too, you know." His voice is dangerously soft, a deadly-sharp blade coated with honey.

"Remember when you've just started out as a squire?"

My mind flicks back to my very first year, to the very first day. Gilbert had been friendly—kind even, attempting to make acquaintanceship with a fellow Champion. He hadn't directly offer me his friendship, but his actions and words clearly implied it. He'd actually seemed excited to have another Champion as a companion.

My mouth goes dry. What I had said will be the death of me right now.

"You do remember," he says slyly. "Just in case though, let me tell you of the events that unfolded.

"I was pleased to have a fellow Champion within the castle grounds, a squire no less, and a potential training partner. So, very casually, while we were taken for a tour around the grounds, I said, 'I'm really glad to have a kin of mine to fight alongside me.' Can you remember what you said next?"

That isn't question. No matter. I summon whatever determination I have left in me, forcing my expression into that of a warrior ready to go down fighting.

"You said, 'I have absolutely no intention of acknowledging someone who barely knows the difference between the hilt of his sword from its edge'," says Gilbert.

"I had no other choice!" I burst aloud.

"Of course you didn't, poor little Constantine. Of course you must keep your gender a secret."

I try to fight his grip. Predictably, to no avail. He raises his sword. "You truly deserve to die, Spawn of the Devil," he says.

He brings the blade onto my neck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, anticipating a sharp, explosive pain, and after that, nothingness. However, like the previous vision, Gilbert and the training field splinters into a thousand fragments.

I lay collapsed on the inscrutable ground of the black abyss, my limbs trembling with fear. The cuts have disappeared. Unfortunately, the invisible scars it left behind hasn't.

Another image forms. I force myself to get up. I have to pass the test. I must.

Now a battlefield surrounds me. Or at least, what's left of it. Rotting corpses pile atop each other, most of their limbs contorted into an impossible angle. Their faces are twisted into expressions of pure agony. Pools of blood darken under the strangely red sun, illuminating the scene into pure gruesomeness.

A lone figure stands in the distance, unmoving, its back faced towards me. I stumble over the carcasses and blood-stained weapons and overturned wagons, making my way towards the figure. Whatever this test is, it must have something to do with that person.

"Excuse me, what is happening here?" I ask tentatively, my voice hoarse and desperate.

The person wheels around to face me. It is a he, who is dressed in a white robe, his hood pulled low over his face, so that I can only see the straight, thin line of his mouth. In one gloved hand, he holds a simple wooden staff.

His mouth slowly curls into a sinister smile. "You brought this doom here, child."

"What? But I've never—"

"Your very existence caused this. You see, with your blood, I have finally managed to obtain the power I needed to raise an unstoppable army of ghosts. Now that they've conquered the world, I can finally take my rightful place on the throne."

"It's just a test, it's just a test," I whisper with fevered frenzy. The visions seem to be more frightening than the last.

"Oh, my dear child, how little you know of the world," says the man, his voice dry and malevolent. "There are no such things as tests. Whatever that unplays before you is always the real deal. Learn that quickly, and you shall be successful. Not that you will have a chance to be."

Unknowingly, I had curled up into a ball. My palms are slapped tight over my ears, trying to block everything out. It's all I can do to stop the tears from streaming down my face.

"Well, well. I hadn't expected the Spawn of the Devil to be such a coward," he remarks acidly. "Before you meet your doom, there are quite a few people who have something to say to you." The hooded man bangs his staff against the ground twice; the earth splits open.

Glowing spirits begin to pour out from the cracks, clawing their way to the surface. When they all line up to face me, I realise with a shock that I recognise all of them. Father, Mother, Gilbert, Sir Kendrick, Captain Eldric, my siblings—everyone whom I have met throughout my life.

"You've caused this, Constantine," they rasp together. "You've brought this doom upon us." They march towards me. I stumble backwards, my hands sinking into a muddy puddle.

"You've brought this doom upon us, so you must pay—with your life."

Hundreds of pairs of arms reach out to grab me. I twist my body, desperately scrabbling through the mud and filth, making a useless attempt at escape. No longer than five seconds later, cold fingers snatch the collar of my tunic, jerking me backwards.

I lie flat on the ground, my eyes looking up into my father's. Any sign of him being alive is gone now.

"Be gone, Spawn of the Devil," he says. The spirits start to suffocate me. I try to push them away, doing anything to allow a precious breath of air to fill my lungs—kicking, biting, punching. The weight above me only increases. I close my eyes, waiting to meet my well-deserved end—

Then it all stops. The splinters scatter away.

I eye the darkness warily, waiting for anymore images to form. There is nothing. Just me and my uneven breaths.

No wait, there's one more. Oh, Pietists Above, I don't have any more strength left in me.

A stained-glass portrait of Pst. Amiticus, the patron of clergymen, forms before me. Above, a whirling spire of mosaics bursts upon my vision in a beautiful blend of colours; below me, people are gathered in a cathedral. I see my body, still standing there, withstanding the horrors of the visions.

A wave of relief washes over me. My test is over.

I start to feel anxious—if it was a test, what if I didn't pass it?

A masculine, sage-like voice interrupts my thoughts. "You have too much fear in you, my child." I look around, trying to pinpoint the direction of its source. It's echoing around me, coming from everywhere.

"You now think yourself unworthy, but you are only so if you believe yourself to be. Face your fears, Constantine. Embrace your individuality. Only then will you truly receive my blessing."

"Where are you?" I can hear the tears in my voice. "Who are you?"

The voice chuckles, but it's not mocking or taunting. Instead, it is comforting. "I am always with you," it says. "And you have known me all your life."

My being is cut off from the air. A hole opens in the cathedral floor, leading into nothingness. I plummet to the ground, the colours slowly fading away. My hands reach out to grab a lifeline; they find nothing but air. I am falling, falling...

*******

A/N: Sorry guys, couldn't resist that little cliffhanger. So stay tuned!

Transept - (in a cross-shaped church) either of the two parts forming the arms of the cross shape, projecting at right angles from the nave (got that straight out of Wikipedia).