Music is Cinnabar from the Houseki no Kuni OST, composed by Fujisawa Yoshiaki. Play it! (Also the anime is absolutely AMAZING. If the CG turns you off, trust me it's one of the best parts of the entire show.)

TW: Racism

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The aftermath of the fire is a sight to behold.

Ash drifts in the air. Almost every single building in Battein has a scar left upon it, with varying degrees of severity. Citizens salvage whatever they can amidst the mess. They've been wading through debris for three days now, trying to take their mind off the monsters that had so unfairly interrupted their idyllic lives.

And the fact that some of them have lost quite a few prominent figures in their lives.

At least, that was the picture that Gilbert had painted for me. I've been bedridden for three days now, the wound on my stomach taking an unbearably long time to heal. It was only till yesterday that I've been able to sit upright. At this rate, it might take me a full week to recover.

My gaze drifts towards the window. The snow resembles speckles of stars flashing against the dwindling sunlight. Somewhere in the distance, white-capped hills stand firm, the only part of the landscape that has remained unchanged following the devastation. The villagers are taking shelter somewhere amidst those hills. Grand Seer Fabienne had agreed to allow those whose houses had been utterly destroyed to take refuge in the Cave of Three Souls.

I pull my gaze away from the window. Every moment I spend looking outside it reminds me of my failure. That I failed to destroy the monster when I had the chance, that I had given it the power to stir this chaos.

That Miraterciel has been lost.

The athame has been tucked safely beneath my mattress, or so Gilbert tells me. He's been adamant that I must not reveal my necromantic abilities to Sir Kendrick and Sir Everest, no matter what.

However, I feel the absence of its power keenly. The last strike into the monster's arm had taken something out of it. Whatever magic laced into its blade, whatever potency it had to slay the dead—it's either gone or weakened.

I pray fervently to Pst. Zorah that it's the latter case.

Someone raps sharply at the door. "May I come in?" It's Sir Kendrick's voice.

"Yes," I answer, although I know that he'd barge straight in anyway.

The wooden door opens with a creak. Sir Kendrick, Gilbert and Alvina pour into the cramped space. To my surprise, Maya follows as well, with Sir Everest keeping a solid bound on her hands, of course. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" I ask. All of them have come in to visit me from time to time as individuals, but never as an entire group. Except for Maya—since she'd practically announced her presence with her magic, Sir Kendrick and Sir Everest have been keeping a tight watch on her.

"We wish to discuss the future of this...plan," Sir Kendrick starts, but falters at the end.

Alvina steps in. She's discarded her Seer robes for a more practical woollen gown. "What the Bane means to say, is that how all of us should proceed from here?"

I raise a brow. "You're asking me?"

"You were the one who managed to confront Sir Isaac—no, the creature head on. You know best of his capabilities. If anyone can advise us on how to deal with the infection, it's you," she says.

I sink into my pillows. "Maya managed to fend him off," I say, eyeing the Marshem girl pointedly. "Why don't you ask her?"

"And so we have. But her statement only accounts for a small fraction of the full fight. Besides, she said that she only blinded the creature so you could be brought to safety."

I release a long sigh. The five pairs of eyes pinning onto me are overwhelming; I cast my gaze downwards, watching my hands clench and unclench the blankets cocooning the lower half of my body. "I thought I've already been through this: the monster was basically a medium of sorts for some larger threat. As for the infection, I...I don't know how to deal with it."

I slump unhappily in my bed. It's always been the same—each of them coming in to ask me how I feel, if my wounds are healing fine. Then asking about the monster wearing Sir Isaac's face—its strengths, its weaknesses. Most importantly, what is exactly the main cause of the infection. And how to counter it.

"It's all right," Gilbert pipes up. "We'll figure this out later. But we'd thought to inform you on the progress of relief efforts as well."

My eyes snap upwards. Sir Kendrick's mouth is downturned in disapproval. 

Gilbert continues, "Grand Seer Fabienne has claimed that the Battein folk will tide through this winter. But they do still need aid. We've already sent a letter to Cordair pleading for help. Once the soldiers arrive, we may return."

"Maya?" I ask. She is the wildcard suddenly introduced into our ranks. At first, Sir Kendrick had been livid to learn that Gilbert and I long knew about her presence here. It had taken him two full days to finally thaw and deign to speak to either of us in a polite manner. If this is the Bane's reaction, I worry how Perinians would react if they were to learn that a Pagan from Marshem claims to be the Champion of Pst. Zorah.

Her magic may be the only proof she has, but it may also serve as her downfall, considering the general folks' innate fear of magic.

Gilbert looks uncertainly towards his master. Looming behind them all, I see Everest's eyes glinting with a thousand unreadable calculations. I wonder what he has surmised from all the events that occurred. Nothing damning, I hope.

I remember the sharpness in his gaze every time I'm caught into a conversation with him. Pst. Bronicus, I pray. Nothing damning.

"She will return with us to Cordair. What becomes of her after that is up to King Terrell to decide," he says.

Of course. She is a stranger in our lands, after all. Only our ruler can determine the witch's ultimate fate.

I'm actually rather surprised to see that they've taken so long to come to this consensus. Maya should be allowed a fair trial—that is the unspoken logic of the case. Sir Kendrick and Sir Everest must have been the ones who protested heavily against that. In fact, they might have been tempted to off her head on the spot the moment she claimed that she was a Champion.

"Anything else I should know?" I venture.

"Well." Gilbert scratches his head, brows drawn together. "The local Galenni have been put very hard at work?"

"I believe that's general knowledge, Squire Falkner," Alvina says. "Speaking of which, what did the Galenni say about your wound?"

"Besides the fact that I'm very lucky to be alive and not have my guts spilling out, which I've heard many times over? I'm fine, I suppose." I place a hand on my stomach. By some miracle, Gilbert had the sense to not allow Sir Kendrick and Sir Everest help me with the wound. By his account, he'd managed to fend them off by acting like a madman and screaming for a physician's help. Once the physician was procured, she'd promptly shooed them all away and commanded them to not be disturbed.

Even military men have to abide by a physician's words, after all.

"Glad to hear it. We weren't quite sure if you'd be awake at this time," Alvina replies.

"Then why the urgency to see me now?"

"Nothing particularly urgent. But we had to catch you at some time and we might as well try now."

I glance over all of them, wondering whose idea it was to come and visit me all at once. Gilbert's, most likely. Why on earth would he do that?

Unless...he has something to discuss in the presence of everyone here.

"All right, enough with the pleasantries, Falkner," Sir Everest interjects. Aha. I was right. "Why did you bring all of us here?"

Gilbert turns slightly, facing everyone else. "It's something I wish to discuss regarding the Song of Prophecy."

Really? Of all things. I want to scream that I'm done with prophecies—that they've done nothing but bring me and the world to ruin. 

You'll be fine, Abner assures me. You know that Gilbert won't do anything to harm you.

Not intentionally, no, I reply shortly.

"What of the Song of Prophecy?" Sir Kendrick asks, intrigue laced in his tone.

Gilbert turns towards Alvina. "You or Grand Seer Fabienne mentioned that the Lorelays had received a different version of it," he says. "May we hear it now?"

Alvina raises her brows in surprise. "Why now, of all times?'

"Grand Seer Fabienne herself said that the Prophecy of Far'hallan has begun," he replies, clearly firm on his stance. I can't make sense of where he's trying to direct this conversation. I swear to Pst. Ailith, if he jeopardises my identity—all that I've worked for...

I will make him pay for what he has done, no matter who he is to me.

"I think it's high time that we learn what this prophecy is about, Seer Alvina," Gilbert continues. "If we knew what the details of the prophecy entail, perhaps we can find out a way to get rid of this infection."

"I don't know if the infection can be gotten rid of so easily, honestly," Alvina answers, tight-lipped.

"We won't know until we've tried."

There's no compulsion in Gilbert's words. Yet with the manner he projected them—low, smooth, dangerous—he might as well have. Sir Kendrick and Everest look at him with slight appraisal.

Alvina sighs, her shoulders sagging. "All right. But do not blame me if it hardly makes sense. We have been trying to dissect it ourselves for many a generation now, to no avail."

She draws in a deep breath. Then she opens her mouth and sings.

A high, lilting melody, full of melancholic hope. Alvina's voice isn't particularly beautiful, but the way she sings it with so much soul—as though she were the prophecy itself, as though she were breathing life into every word, every syllable...it's entrancing. Like I'm being pulled into a vortex of dreams and I don't want to fight it.

It's the same melody she'd hummed in the Cave of Three Souls. The time when she first brought me into the cavern of Pst. Bronicus.

It also has the same melody as the Song of Prophecy. By the time I'm listening though, I've missed the first part of the song:

Third comes the darkness,
The first and the last.
All will be shaken,
Unless three comes to pass.

One of the unseen, the sword and the fire,
The one whom all shall tremble with mire.
Two of the spirit, the axe and the cold,
The one whom all shall desire.
Three of the lost, the dreaded and the light,
The one whom for all shall fight.

All will battle the darkness,
But tisn't a guarantee.
For one must make a choice,
Between what is and what could be.

I frown to myself. The lyrics are actually quite similar to the Song of Prophecy, save for the fact that there are three new characters introduced here. It feels more like a story, rather than an ominous prediction of what is to come. It feels like...it's giving me a choice. As though I could truly steer my fate into the direction I will it to be.

The backs of my eyes start to burn.

I rein in my emotions. Why am I reacting like this anyway? It's not as if all of my problems have been magically solved by one song. But somewhere inside me, tucked away within the hidden trenches of my heart, a desperate feeling for comfort sprouts. This prophecy provides that—giving me hope in the way that the Song of Prophecy grants me despair.

Alvina finishes the song. The entire room remains stagnant in silence for a few moments.

"Interesting," Everest murmurs.

"It's not significantly different from the Song of Prophecy itself," says Sir Kendrick, scratching at his beard. "But the part where the three are described has been taken away, replaced with other characters instead."

"The Fate Breaker, the Lost King and the Marked Witch have been replaced," Gilbert continues for his master.

I give a loud sniffle. Everyone's attention snaps towards me. I hope that my nose isn't red. "They're the same people of the three, no? The Fate Breaker will be the one of 'the sword and the fire', the Lost King of 'the axe and the cold', the Marked Witch 'the lost, the dreaded and the light'," I offer automatically.

They stare at me.

"What?" I ask, trying my best to not wither underneath the pressure.

"Indeed," Sir Kendrick says, keeping his tone cautious. "In that case, I remember the last visit here—when Grand Seer Fabienne had mentioned something about a 'Marked Witch'. I'd dismissed it as nonsensical babbling then, of course. But now, if everything that has happened so far is indeed part of the prophecy, we can no longer dismiss it as such."

"Sir?" Everest says. I can't see behind Maya, but I know that the guard has tightened his grip on her.

Sir Kendrick wheels around and faces Maya. Against Sir Kendrick, who looms nearly two heads taller than her, she seems less of a witch and more of a lonely, confused girl—until she looks like she remembers that she is a Champion, and forces herself to look at the Bane with no small measure of dignity.

"You are the Marked Witch, no doubt about that anymore," he says, tone cold. "However, why do they call you Marked?" He reaches out and tugs Maya's shawl off her head. She stiffens visibly, eyes wide with terror. Yet she manages to compose herself and not react violently.

Then Sir Kendrick pushes the collar of her dress aside.

I stifle a gasp of horror. Beside me, Gilbert and Alvina's jaws drop in dismay. Maya's eyes burn red with shame.

"Sir Kendrick!" Alvina shrieks.

He holds up a hand to silence her. I realise that he isn't even looking at Maya as a human being—no. The reason he dared to violate her was not out of lust or because of his position, but because he views her as an object. Something that needn't be respected nor revered. As if she were a mere pen or a table or a stool—something to be utilised till the day it gets completely worn out and discarded, lost and forgotten.

If Maya were born to a race any other than that of the Pagans, she would be treated as a lady.

It's the way of the world, I tell myself, even as the situation screams injustice at me.

"She has not been Marked," Sir Kendrick comments, his voice cool and nonchalant.

"I think you may let her go now, sir," Gilbert says quietly. Sir Kendrick's hand is still wrapped around her dress.

The Bane gives one long hard look at his apprentice before deigning to release Maya.

She struggles in her binds. Everest holds her steady. She must be trying to pull the sleeve back over her shoulder, as it'd been laid bare just now. Alvina senses this and helps the poor girl to straighten her clothes, rewrapping her shawl over her head in the process.

"Who is Pst. Zorah's counterpart again?" Sir Kendrick continues, oblivious to the minor upheaval he'd just incited amongst us.

"Pst. Jaron, milord," Everest answers for the rest of us. "Overseer of the performing arts. Essentially the artist who performs in the day, as opposed to Pst. Zorah who lurks in the night."

It sounds like he'd just read that off a manual describing the Pietists. "Who is the Champion of Pst. Jaron now?" asks Sir Kendrick.

"I believe he's from Belius, sir," Everest replies. Apparently he's taken it upon himself to be Sir Kendrick's ultimate partner-in-crime here.

"He's Marked?"

"He would be about thirty now, so yes, I believe so."

Sir Kendrick refocuses his attention on Maya. "How old are you, girl?"

"Seventeen," she replies, eyes flat and dead.

"You should be Marked already, then."

"No Marking there. It is banned."

Sir Kendrick raises a supercilious brow. I feel like throwing a pillow at him. Of course they wouldn't have any such Marking ceremonies in Pagan lands! Pietists, their people are not even supposed to be Champions in the first place.

I take in a deep breath. Control. No blanking out now. Sir Kendrick has every right to question her, I remind myself. She came in illegally to our shores. With no declaration of diplomacy, she could very well be considered an invader.

"Hmm." Sir Kendrick pulls away from Maya, an intense gaze sweeping over us all. "If she is not Marked, she can never be the Marked Witch."

We all stay quiet. I myself am not sure of what Sir Kendrick is trying to say.

"What about the Lost King and the Fate Breaker then? Who are they?" he murmurs. An ominous chill settles over us. Across the room, I sense Everest's sharp eyes flicking between Gilbert and I. I do my best to ignore him.

"Evidently they must be close," Everest says. "If the prophecy truly has already begun, then it would mean that the three characters are gathered, whether wittingly or unwittingly."

Almost simultaneously, everyone's focus turns upon me.

I jump in my bed. "Is there an issue?"

"Right now, if there's anyone, it's the Champion of Pst. Bronicus who would be able to make the most logical conclusions," says Everest.

"Why don't we bring this to the Champion of Pst. Quinn instead?" I say, a little more sourly than I'd like.

"Unfortunately, that current Champion is residing all the way in Xingko. In case that wound in your stomach somehow affected your brain, let me remind you that leagues of ocean separate our continents." Everest pauses, deliberately stringing tension into the air. "This means in terms of intellectual capabilities, you are our best bet."

I swallow a groan. "Can't this wait till I'm fully recovered?"

"Lives are at stake, Rutherland," Everest says, stern and unmoving. "The sooner we figure out this prophecy, the sooner we can get rid of this infection."

Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. I weigh a thousand possibilities in my head, trying to set all the paths straight, trying to see every outcome. Everything blurs together—death, death, death. That's all I see. My ultimate fate—the one thing I know I was born to bring. My destiny that has been thrown to me since birth.

It takes a long time before I come to a decision. "All right. Fine. If you're willing to take the truth, that is."

"We wish for nothing but the truth," Everest says. And I know that his words are genuine.

The Bane folds his arms across his chest.

"Sir Kendrick probably already knows this, but I am the Fate Breaker," I say slowly, "and Gilbert is the Lost King."

The silence that follows is loud.

"You—are you sure?" Alvina is the first to break it. Even then, I sense that she is treading very carefully. Underneath her question, I detect a trace of incredulity—"Are you insane?" she asks without having to speak. "You just revealed yourself to everyone!"

"If you're saying that the Fate Breaker is the one of the sword and the fire, then yes, I have already had an inkling that you were the character in question," says Sir Kendrick.

Alvina whirls on him, a storm gathering on the tip of her brow. "How did you know?"

For once, Sir Kendrick seems to hesitate in his words. "Please note that this is classified information."

"There's no one around," says Gilbert. Right. Our superior hearing means that we can instantly pick up on the slightest trace of movement. Just to be sure though, I probe around with my shadows. No eavesdroppers.

Sir Kendrick hawks his throat. "When we were tasked with hunting Diomedes, Kendra had strangely called upon the assistance of a Ravürkian commander, even though the incident was supposed to be dealt with internally—meaning as Perinians, we had a duty to bring a fellow Perinian to justice. However, Kendra wanted this Ravürkian commander to join us, and she made no compromise on the stance. We only gave in because the commander was also the Champion of Pst. Ailith.

"Eventually, I found out why. Kendra revealed to us that three different types of magic users were needed to capture Diomedes—to put death incarnate in his place. One of fire, one of ice—and the last one of shadows, to bridge between the two opposing elements." Sir Kendrick takes a breather, making sure that we're all following him.

"The one of ice was Luise, the Champion of Pst. Ailith. The one of shadows was—naturally—Kendra herself. And the one of fire..."

Sir Kendrick's eyes pierce into me, as though he were striving to claw my deepest, darkest secrets into light. "Was your father. Lord Percival Rutherland."

I incline my head, acknowledging the truth. Besides Gilbert, however, the rest look like they had their cheeks freshly slapped by a cold, wet fish.

"I have the fire," I say boldly. I've already considered all course of action—to get this over and done with seems like the best one to me. We all want to get rid of the infection. If my fire can be of any use...then I might as well tell everyone about it.

You've chosen wisely, Abner says, soothing the small seeds of doubt that can't help but manifest in me.

Glad you have faith.

I always do.

"Are you sure?" Gilbert squawks. His amber eyes are bright with panic. I hold them, trying to tell him it's okay—that I have everything under control. He gets the message, and the panic dies down just a fraction.

Well, I have almost everything under control now.

"I am," Sir Kendrick replies. "I saw Lord Rutherland's magic myself."

"Then that means..." Gears click together in Everest's mind, reflected in his expression. "Our young Champion has his father's magic as well. The Champion of War and Strategy—the son of the sword. With fire running in his veins."

"What of Falkner then?" Sir Kendrick says, directing his question towards me, while eyeing Gilbert with a withering glare. Gilbert, in return, stands tall and schools his expression.

"He's the only one I could think of with the axe, so..." I've already revealed my fire—it doesn't mean that I'm entitled to dragging Gilbert along with me. Besides, it could prove useful if I don't play all my cards at one go.

"But the ice?" Sir Kendrick continues to pin Gilbert with his eyes. "You are at least half-Ravürkian, I suppose, if your looks are anything to go by. So the idea of you being Luise's descendent isn't entirely implausible."

"I apologise, sir, but I've never known if I have any magic at all," says Gilbert. Smart boy. He's caught onto my game then.

"Time will tell. At any rate, if Rutherland is correct, the three main players in the Song of Prophecy have indeed been gathered." Sir Kendrick drops his arms, allowing them to dangle by his sides. I know that I have been rather critical of the Bane and his unorthodox methods in yielding results, but now that I've seen this side of him, I'd much prefer if he were to remain the impossibly cheery general who obfuscates his wit, instead of drawing his blade out in the open.

"What now?" Alvina asks. She seems shaken, if her quick, worrying glances are any indication. I bet that she'd nearly fainted when I'd revealed one part of my magic to them.

Sir Kendrick squares his shoulders, his golden hair haloing his head as though it were a crown. "We head home."

******

A/N: So I actually wanted to update this last week and then I came back here and found out that I didn't. And now I feel stupid. XD

Anyhow, that wraps up the first arc of this book! Phew! Definitely took a long way to get here. But I hoped to at least leave you guys with a (somewhat) conclusive note. It seems unfitting to leave it with such a short note, but it's even weirder to leave a long, heartfelt (and probably soppy) letter considering that it's NOT the end of Constantine's journey. I still love this book, this world, the characters, but as I've mentioned many times before, I believe that the new book I'm writing will aid me in pursuing my writing dream. Fret not, because I fully intend to return to Constantine's world one day; it is my heart and soul, after all.

So thank you, Champions. Thank you for everything. Wervas, fortimas. 

P.S. The book that I'm currently writing is False Goddess, and is up on my profile now! It's about a girl who is crowned a living goddess but doesn't have said goddess in her, and another girl who comes in to take her place. Infighting begins; shenanigans happen. Think The Cruel Prince X The Conqueror's Saga but with no romance (sorry) and set in a world based on Nepal!