Music is Echoes of the Roman Ruins from the Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood OST, composed by Jesper Kyd. Play it!

******

The tents are duly pitched; Sir Kendrick and the three men return after collecting the firewood; and a tripod stand is set up in the centre of the camp. Soon, we have a jolly-looking fire roaring away in the depths of the night.

One of the men—the young corporal I saw this morning—starts boiling the stew that will be our dinner. A comrade helps him, while the others take to relaxing and chatting amongst themselves to pass the time.

Minutes tick by. I continue to revel in the atmosphere, letting the heat of the fire sink into my travel-weary bones. The flames lick the air, spiralling upwards, dancing a dizzy waltz of red, amber and yellow. Sparks float upwards and disappear into nothingness. Something in me stirs. The parts that yearns to tame the fire—be part of it. But as always, I cannot afford to allow my powers to come into their full potential. So I quell the yearning.

It still burns in the pit of my belly.

I close my eyes, tuning out the idle chatter engulfing me. There is peace in the forest; it feels like we're invaders trying to mark their territory. The men are trying to fill the silence, but they don't realise that the forest doesn't want to be filled with silence. What is Pst. Maia thinking of them right now?

A strong mixture of onions, herbs and some gamey meat tickle my nostrils. My stomach growls in return. The spell of the woods over me is broken. For now, there are more urgent matters to tend to. Our lunch had been stale bread accompanied by cheese. Barely enough to satisfy one who has been riding all day. My eyes flicker open.

"Stew's all ready! C'mere an' get yer share!" cries the young Corporal in a thick southern Perinian accent. So he's from the more rural areas of the country. It's rare that Southerners move to the northern cities to seek their fortune. The only person I know of who shares his accent is Leigh, a Galennus-in-training back in Cordair.

Everyone instantly comes alive at those blessed words. They scrabble towards the pot. The Corporal looks slightly stupefied at the sight of the ravenous beasts shouting at him. Sir Kendrick walks up front, gives them all a glare, and they fall into line.

Then he flashes a wicked grin. "Last one to earn his meal will be scrubbing pots tonight!" he announces.

Chaos resumes.

I smile to myself. Looks like I'll be the foretold pot-scrubber for tonight. I get up from the log I'm sitting on, walk over, and patiently wait for all the others to get their stew.

Eventually, the men dissipate, tucking into their meal like a pack of voracious wolves. Then I see that Sir Isaac hasn't gotten his share yet. "Sir, you go first," I say, when he hovers uncertainly.

"Looking forward to scrubbing pots, boy?" he counters.

"Not particularly. But I'm not letting an elder do the honours instead," I reply evenly.

He releases a grunt. "Always the chivalrous lad. Very well, don't say that I never offered to be the sacrificial lamb."

The Corporal hands the bowl in his hands to Sir Isaac. When I step forwards, his lips slowly curl into a grin. He passes the lukewarm stew to me. "Will be marking ye as the official pot-scrubber, aye?"

"It's just for tonight," I grumble. "Why is everyone so eager to dodge the role?"

"Well now, never meant to set yer nerves so sharp. Jest a joke, that's all."

I look over my shoulder. The men seem to be wrapped up in conversation, but I sense their eyes flickering towards me from time to time. They laugh, as though they were sharing a hidden joke. I have a profound feeling that I'm the hidden joke. "Doesn't strike me as funny," I say.

"Eh. S'pose it nayn't hurt if I tell ye," says the corporal. "Truth is, tradition goes that loser on the first night of camp will be heralded as the...mascot, of sorts."

"And what's so bad about being the mascot?"

"Ahh...S' pose ye's new to all this, ain't ye? Nothing bad, exactly. Jest that ye's the uh – representative ass of the group." At least he's blunt about it.

I raise a brow. "Nice to know that," I say sarcastically.

"Tis all a joke, of course," he explains in haste.

What do you know now? Even the seniors are afraid of you.

Abner, aren't you supposed to be sleeping? I mutter in my head. Where were you all day?

Riding through endless woods isn't something much to take note of. You could have talked to me. I was incredibly bored.

I'm not some entertainer to rise and grovel at your every whim and fancy! You could've talked to yourself.

And make myself look like a fool? Thank you, but no thank you.

You are technically talking to yourself, no?

"Squire Rutherland, ye all right?" the Corporal's voice draws me out of the conversation.

"Oh – of course. Thank you, Sir..." I trail off as I realise that I don't know the man's name.

"Vanryse," he continues cheerfully. "But Ruddybones what's they call me. Ruddy fer me Southerner origins, an' bones for the mean stew I make."

I nod and raise the bowl towards him in a mock salute. "Dig into your stew before it gets cold, Ruddybones."

"Doesn't matter. Me stew's satisfying whether hot or cold."

"I shall leave you to it, then."

"Aye. An' remember to do the washing up afterwards!"

Despite the mischievous jab, I smile. I head towards where the rest are gathered. Their bellows echo throughout the crevices if the woods. Gilbert waves for me to join them; I do so.

I don't talk much, but I do chip in on the conversation from time to time. With Gilbert and Vanryse's help, I ease into the little group. Perhaps socialising isn't so bad after all, I think.

Halfway through the meal, when I've just finished my second helping, Sir Isaac abruptly stands up. "Pardon the limited stamina of an old man, but I have to turn in early. Must regain what energy I'd lost in these aching bones of mine," he says.

It's unusually early. And Sir Isaac isn't the type who would miss a round of revelries. Uneasiness settles at the back of my head. I just have the feeling that something isn't...right.

My Deathslayer side is telling me that. I sense it through the night, the darkness, the shadows.

"Of course, Sir Isaac." Sir Kendrick bobs his head at him, giving him reassurance that it's okay to retire early.

The elderly knight retreats to his tent without another word. The men resume the bawdy jokes without hesitation. I politely excuse myself to retrieve a third helping—the stew really is unbelievably good. It could be because of the fact that the food served to squires at the castle is as dull as dishwater, but there's no doubt that Vanryse is an excellent chef.

And yet as I tuck into the third helping, everything tastes like ash. I ignore that and continue downing the stew.

The Deathslayer and Miraterciel continue to sing in alarm.

******

Someone shakes me gently by the shoulder. "Wake up. It's your watch," a breath tickles my ear.

I sit upright. My head crashes into someone else's. Said someone emits a yelp. "Shh!" I growl. "Do you want to wake everybody up?"

Gilbert rubs the spot where I'd crashed into him mournfully. "Easy for you to say. You didn't take the brunt of it," he moans.

I leap onto my feet and reach for my scimitar placed beside my bedroll. I must have been heavily asleep to not have heard Gilbert entering the tent. Looks like hard riding can take a toll on one, Champion or no. "Maybe you can sleep the pain away," I say. "Just mind your head the next time you intend to call me."

"Noted." He yawns, unbuckles the longsword from his belt, and flops himself on a bedroll, preparing to turn in for the night. "Now go and watch before bandits attack us."

I head out without another word. Frozen night air fills my lungs. My head clears immediately. All my senses are alert. I belt the scimitar on, and take a seat on a log. There are no embers to indicate the presence of the long-dead fire, but I can see perfectly fine with the full moon hanging in the sky. Its silver light washes over the clearing, lending it a certain crystalline clarity.

The shadows call out to me. A small grin lights up my face. I may never have a chance like this again. I extend a hand outwards, exhaling slowly. Then I curl my fingers so that it forms a fist. Shadows react, more willing to listen to my commands during night time rather than in the day. They slither towards me and slide over my arm, like a gauntlet. Sweat beads on my forehead. The effort it takes to hold the shadows together strains me, and I release them. They quickly return to where they came from.

An excellent opportunity to practice, Constantine, booms Abner's voice abruptly. Now, why don't you continue to do that like I've always asked you to?

It's tiring, I respond. I need my full strength if I'm to keep watch.

Keep watch, pish-posh. You know very well that bandits won't be able to get the best of you even if you were drunk and slobbering away like a mad fool.

Thank you for the vote of confidence.

My pleasure.

I give an internal sigh. There really is no reasoning with Abner. So I extend my hand outwards once more. This time though, my focus is on the fire pit. I close my eyes and breathe.

I imagine strands of magic shooting out from my fingertips, binding me to the world. Gradually, with the aid of these strands, I probe my way around, searching for the slightest spark of heat on the ground. When time goes by with no results, I push myself harder, forcing my strands to strengthen themselves. Soon, they latch onto a small pool of heat. That must be the fire pit. Good. I allow my energy to trickle through the strands, feeding the heat.

Something snaps in the air.

I open my eyes. A small flame burns in the centre of the fire pit.

I smile.

And why don't you completely ignore this ability, like I've always asked you to? Abner grumbles.

The flame licks up the remaining wood, multiplying itself and growing bigger. I idly put my palms near it, grateful for the small bit of warmth brushing against me. And why don't you explain what this is all about? I shoot back. You've been constantly nagging me about this, yet you refuse to explain your reasoning.

Hadn't I explained enough? It's your fire which De—Diomedes wants. If you continue to fuel it, your shadows will grow weaker in return, and the Deathslayer will be completely lost, he says. We need someone who can put the necromancer to rest, not someone whose flames create more chaos.

It's just one small flame. I don't understand why you're so sensitive about it, I say sulkily.

One small flame can spark a whole wildfire.

Then what about my shadows? Aren't you afraid that someone will eventually discover my power? You know what happened the last time. I actually shunned sunlight. People will start talking if the Champion of Pst. Bronicus doesn't go under the sun anymore.

There will always be risks, he replies.

I release an exasperated huff. Fine. I'll put the fire out if that's what you want.

That's not the point, Constantine.

I tune him out. I focus on the fire in front of me instead. My fingers curl into my palms, just the way I did when I called the shadows. Only this time, I feel like I'm summoning a blanket to smother the flames. I grit my teeth, feeling my own fire fighting against me, refusing to be put out. Cold sweat trickles down my back. I suck in a deep breath and slam down on the fire pit with all my might.

The heat dissipates.

I breathe heavily, doubling over to catch my breath. That had taken more energy than I'd like. My limbs tremble; black spots dance in my vision. Wha – why did that happen? I ask Abner.

Like I said, one small flame can spark a wildfire. And a wildfire is always harder to put out than one small flame, he answers patiently. See? The more you allow your power to grow, the harder it will be to rein it back.

I grow quiet. His words ring profoundly in my head. The only sounds that can be heard are my laboured huffs, the chirping of crickets and the distant rush of a nearby stream. All is calm.

Except for the fact that the shadows suddenly scream at me.

It's like a tidal wave slamming into my body. The darkness overwhelms my senses, rendering me completely blind for a moment. I feel as though I am seventeen years old again, barely into my powers, already tapping into an unknown abyss. That power allows me to 'see' my surroundings via the shadows. They're trying to warn me about something, yet I can't find anything worth taking note of. The wild boar about two hundred yards away? No, that can't be it.

I shake my head and stand up. I feel a little light in my feet. Not good. Still, I unsheathe my scimitar. My eyes dart about, searching for unseen enemies. Something's wrong, I tell Abner.

I know. Your Deathslayer senses almost drowned me too.

I don't see anything.

Me neither. Of course he doesn't. He sees everything through my eyes.

A scream rips through the air.

One of the tents—Sir Isaac's. My blood chills. I dash over. Before I can push the tent flap open, it already gives way from the inside.

A demon lunges towards me.

******

A/N: For those of you who are reading this online, quick question: Was the inclusion of the image too sudden? Just wanna get some opinions, since I'm not very used to this entire 'interactive' storytelling thing. 

Also, looks like I'm back with the cliffhangers. Muehehehehehe. But this was too good to resist. Now looks like Constantine and her companions are in trouble... Question is, why? Thoughts? Leave them down below!

Also, don't forget to vote, share and recommend! <3

Side note: If anybody has watched Steins; Gates please tell me. Kthxbai.