Music is Organ by The Hardkiss. Okay, not epic music. But play it anyway!

Also note that I've edited Chapter 8, hence a few parts that don't really make sense for all of you who have been keeping with recent updates only. It's not necessary to go back and reread it though!

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The distant crows of merrymaking and resounding bells grow closer as Gilbert and I near the centre of the village. We'd tried to look for the Elders within the manor. Tried. They were nowhere to be found. Apparently they were the ones responsible in conducting the weekly rituals to please Pst. Zorah.

The streets are unusually deserted. It seems that everyone—man or woman, young or old, local or foreigner—had gone to participate in the events festivities. As though all human life has been siphoned out of the outer areas and into the village square.

"Looks like they're religious as well," remarks Gilbert as we stroll past practically empty shop houses, a few grumpy shopkeepers left still. "In their own funny little way, that is."

"They take religion very seriously," I say, recalling my mother's tales of her hometown. About how they used to bake raisined sourdough for ravens to peck at; about how young maidens had to never cut their hair till they were sixteen, where they shaved it all off as an offer of service to Pst. Zorah; about how the youths of the village danced around in circles, bathed in pig's blood and eyes frenzied. "Almost too seriously," I add.

"Well, I can see that," Gilbert says. "Doesn't help that all this talk about prophecies is rather ominous."

Maya. An image of the Marshem girl, clothed in white and washed over with light, appears in my mind. I haven't talked to Gilbert about her yet. I check our surroundings through my peripheral vision. No better time than now, I think, seeing that hardly anyone is paying attention despite our announced presence in the village.

"Gilbert, I..." I trail off, unable to gather the words to accurately represent the storm of thoughts raging inside my head.

"You"—Gilbert gives me an unhelpful stare—"want to apologise about being so rude to me this morning?"

He blinks innocently. I know that I've already been forgiven a long time ago—his offer of assistance on my work is proof enough. But I can't help but crack a grin at his puppy-like expression. "That too," I say. "However, there's something else that's more important than you at the moment."

"Something more important than me?" He feigns incredulity and hurt, staggering as though a phantom had just clocked him on the head. I laugh. "Apologies. Never mind me. Pray, continue."

I stifle a chuckle. "All right then." I clear my throat, reverting back into seriousness. "It's about...Maya."

At the mention of the Marshem girl's name, Gilbert instantly sheds all his light-heartedness. "What about her?" he asks, tone cautious.

"Nothing." Gilbert raises a brow; I huff in resignation. "Truly, nothing. It's just that—" I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to rectify its unruliness and recompose myself at the same time. "I'm just worried," I spit out at last. It sounds so pathetic, coming out of my mouth. "About all of...this. Especially about what her presence signifies."

My companion continues to stare at me. I look away, unable to take the intensity of his amber eyes, as though he could strip my walls down and expose me to the world for the person I truly am. Whoever she is. "I'm sorry," I resume after thirty seconds' worth of silence. "I know it doesn't make sense. Forget it—"

"No, it all makes sense," Gilbert says slowly. "You just so happened to voiced out my unspoken worries, that's all."

"That's a relief," I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "For a moment back there, I thought you thought I was going insane."

The corners of Gilbert's lips tilt upwards in a false curve. "Never would I doubt my best friend. I understand. Maya proclaiming to be the Champion of Pst. Zorah... That's ridiculous. Blasphemy even."

"But her light," I continue, unable to use the word 'magic' just yet, although it burns on the tip of my tongue. "What if it's true? What if she is the lost Champion of Pst. Zorah? And if it were all so, why does she come now? What does it all mean?"

"I wish I knew all the answers to your questions," Gilbert sighs. "Unfortunately, I know as little as you do. Even less so, possibly."

I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "We'll figure this out together."

"I hope so."

There's a grimness in his words that compels me to finally dare to fully face my fellow Champion. A boy no longer, I think, noting the heavy curves under his usually laughing eyes, the prominent strength in his jaw. Suddenly, he looks older than me, even though we're of the same age. I realise that he's been looking like this ever since he'd returned from his travels with Sir Kendrick. Yes, he's laughed the same; talked the same. But there has been an undertone of weariness beneath all the lightness. What had the roads done to the young, carefree boy I once knew? This person walking beside me is a stranger wearing his face.

And this isn't the first time either. The other time at the Northern Well within the Lorelay Manor—Gilbert had seemed brittle, dark. But it was for a few fleeting seconds, and so I'd dismissed the event.

Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself. It's still Gilbert. It's Gilbert. "Come now, surely you believe in us," I say out loud, inwardly cringing at my forced cheerfulness. "Aren't you supposed to be the optimistic one?"

He laughs, but it's hollow. "I suppose I am," he replies. He shakes his head, dark hair falling over his expression like a curtain. "But...Pietists Above, Constantine. I don't know. Did you see the infected people? How are we supposed to fight that?"

I pause, taking my turn to stare at him. He takes a few steps forward before realising that I'm not moving. "Gilbert, I..." I trail off once more. How do you comfort someone when you barely know how to comfort yourself?

"I'm sorry," he says. "You're right. We should be more optimistic about this. Diomedes was once deemed unbeatable, yet we defeated him."

I search his amber eyes, searching for the seed of doubt inside them. He sounds so childlike, so unconfident. No, this isn't the Gilbert I know. What had happened to him? Could it be? I don't want to think about it, but I have to.

I close my eyes and reach into the necromancer inside me, allowing her to take control. She awakens, extending her senses into the world. Somehow, the Deathslayer feels so alive here, as though she's aware that this is where her legacy originated from. As though she knows that she's come home. Everything bathed in light is still touched by shadows, and that's where she thrives.

I reign her—myself in, forcing myself to reach towards Gilbert. I nearly sink to the ground in relief when I find no taint in him.

My eyelids flutter open. So Gilbert isn't corrupted, thank Pst. Ailith. But there's still a poison inside him—something that has poisoned his soul.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"I was checking to see if you were one of the corrupted," I confess. No need for secrets between us, I remind myself.

He scrunches his brows in disbelief. "How? Oh wait. You – here – of course." He makes the connection by himself, realisation creeping into his eyes. "Why?" He says the word simply, but there is an undertone of anger in it. You suspect me, I hear his unspoken words.

"You're acting strange," I answer, just as simply. "This"—I gesture at him with a frustrated hand—"isn't you."

"Really now? People change, Constantine. I change."

His words are now laced with danger. Irritation takes place in me. I was just asking; I hadn't meant to start an argument, of all things. "All right, so you have more experience than me in exploring the world," I snarl. "Is this what it's all about?"

"Pst. Kamira, no! Like I said, Constantine, I've changed."

"And I suppose that I don't match up to your standards because I haven't." I fold my arms defensively.

"Oh no, you haven't changed at all. The world isn't all fair and lovely, you know?"

"You think I don't know that? You think I've been living in a fair and lovely world for all these years?" I fight to keep my emotions in check. Control. I don't want to end up blanking out again. I don't want to end up going on a rampage that I have no recollection of. "What do you think I've been doing since I was born?"

"I know that!" It's just—"

I brush past him and storm off. That's what I get for trying to help people. "Never mind. We have a festival to attend," I say.

"Constantine—"

"Don't talk to me till you've decided that I've changed."

"Constantine!"

His fingers tug on my sleeve. I snatch my arm away. He decides to grip me instead. I struggle, but it's no use. The overwhelming strength of Pst. Ailith, passed down to her chosen Champion, keeps me in its iron lock. I grit my teeth; no choice but to use compulsion, in this case. "Gilbert, think about what you're doing—"

He interrupts me before I have a chance to complete the compulsion by clamping a hand over my mouth. Pst. Bronicus give me strength. Thank the heavens that no one is her to witness this spectacle. It would fuel local gossip for months—the sight of two Champions of War going against each other, no holds barred.

My continued physical struggle does little use to stop him from dragging me down an alley. As if the streets aren't empty enough for us to take our brawl there. The months I'd spent back in Castle Cordair while Gilbert travelled had made me lazy, I realise. I've had little to no progress with my abilities, and yet here is Gilbert, easily overpowering me. Granted, he had the element of surprise, but it's no excuse for me.

Gilbert releases me from his grip; I gasp in shock. It takes five seconds before I pull myself together. "What are you doing?" I hiss. "Don't be an id—"

He interrupts me once more not with violence, but by placing both hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look at him. The sudden heat of his palms makes my cheeks flare. I'm abruptly aware of how close he's standing to me; of the bulk of his weight pressing against mine; of the two snowflakes caught in the lashes of his right eye. He's barely a hair's breadth taller than me, yet he seems to tower over my stature here.

I freeze. Alarms blaze in my head. My pulse rises. I should push him away. Make a break for it while I can. But I don't.

And I don't know why I don't.

"You don't change," he says, voice so low and husky it sends shivers down my spine. "Please don't change. Please..."

"Gilbert?" I test his name with trepidation, as though this is the first time I've ever explored the unknown corners of each syllable, gradually peeling my way through the layers hidden within layers.

"Constantine, I..."

His turn to trail off now. Instead of letting awkwardness linger in the air though, he gently strokes my jawline with the back of his hand. Right side, I barely register in my head. My senses go numb, only aware of me and him right here, right now.

Then he takes my face in both hands again, firmly gripping it, and leans forwards.

I know what will happen next. I've seen it pass between stolen moments of my father and mother; seen more desperate, hungry versions of it passing between the servants when they think no one is looking. I've read about it, mostly. There are so many variations of this moment: some heated, some shy, some defined by the surge of pure emotions surging within.

Some part of me wants this. And this part is dangerous. It's already risky enough having him knowing my true gender, but this... This is something different altogether. Pst. Manofrey, do I want this? Yes. But I don't deserve this. I am not a normal woman. I am a chosen medium of both creation and destruction; all who follow my path will only experience pain.

No.

I don't deserve this.

My limbs are heavy, but I find the strength to twist out of Gilbert's arms. Shock slaps his expression. Guilt tears my guts into ribbons. No, this is for the best, I tell myself. I take a few steps away, putting a healthy distance between me and him.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'm sorry—"

We both apologise at the same time before cutting ourselves off. I shuffle on my feet uneasily, back of my neck burning as though it were the height of summer, and not winter. I already know what he'll apologise for. Seven Hells, I can even imagine it in his voice: "I shouldn't have done that, Constantine. I – I'm so, so sorry."

And I know what I'll apologise for: "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I'm not ready. I'll never be ready."

This string of unvoiced words exchanges between us. I cough, breaking the ever-growing silence. "We should – uh, resume our duties."

He startles, features rinsed with clarity. "Oh, of course." He hawks his throat. "After you."

I nod, walking stiffly past him, back to the street where we came from. His footsteps echo mine behind me. I feel so conscious, like I've been forced to strip naked and parade around the village. After what had just happened, I might as well have done that.

That was interesting, Abner pipes up. He doesn't bother to hide the amusement in his voice.

Shut up, I growl. The blast of wind cutting into my cheeks does little to stop their rising heat.

It was all very entertaining, Abner rambles on. For a third party, naturally. Wish you could have seen yourselves.

I hope you enjoyed the show, I say sarcastically.

Oh, I did. Don't worry.

Not another word from you.

But remember Constantine, you did the right thing back there. All amusement fades out of Abner's voice. You know how this will end.

I do.

Good.

There's a finality in that word that indicates the end of the topic. I feel reassured, knowing that my guide agrees with my actions for once. But at the same time, I can't help the what if roaring inside me.

No, like what Abner said, you did the right thing.

"Well now, isn't this a cheery sight?" Gilbert's voice draws me out of my stupor.

I blink furiously, absorbing my surroundings, electing to pretend that the lingering disappointment and embarrassment that Gilbert is struggling to push away doesn't exist. We've arrived at the village square, where a cathedral stands tall and proud in its centre. Its structure is intimidating—all sharp, precise angles and detailed carvings. Every inch of it was melded from perfection. As if it had been created by the Pietists themselves.

And yet that isn't the main attraction. That honour goes to the people crowding around it in a sea of black. Everyone is wearing black, the sombre colour of the night, of darkness, of shadows. The colour of Pst. Zorah. Battein isn't a very big town, by all means, but with nearly all its inhabitants gathered here, it practically suffocates the air with the illusion it has painted. Rolling masses of black, swaying and chanting to the ritual music, so distant and otherworldly just now, very loud and real and drumming to every pound of my heart here.

Calling out to the Deathslayer.

I find myself drawn to the crowd automatically. With every step I take, every detail becomes clearer to me—including the figure standing at the doorsteps of the cathedral.

Grand Seer Fabienne.

"What is she doing here?" I wonder out loud.

"She's their leader. Of course she has to be here," says Gilbert.

I clench my jaw. Of course. But that doesn't explain why I sense that even over the distance, even as she's talking to the crowd, chanting in some incoherent language, she has her attention focused upon me.

"And now, our guest of honour has arrived!" announces Grand Seer Fabienne in a booming undertone. I furrow my brows, continuing to walk at a steady pace.

My heart stops for a moment when the Grand Seer points her spindly finger at me.

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A/N: Well, what can I say? I think I sunk the ship before it could sail. Oops, I guess? Hehehe. But hope you guys aren't too hung up over it. We have more pressing matters at hand, after all. Especially where the Grand Seer is concerned.

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