A/N: Dedicated to Stellar_Heart for being the very first commenter of this book!

******

I know from the first swing of my opponent's sword that I will win.

His moves are clumsy and unrefined; all he has is muscle. By contrast, I can easily match, if not exceed his strength. Plus, I have the speed he lacks.

I dodge every single swipe he goes for, and parry away the ones that are too close for comfort. From the way his breath is coming—shorter, shallower—he is losing his strength. Fast. A chilly wind is blowing in from the north, yet sweat soaks his tunic and pastes hair to his forehead. His knees tremble at the effort of maintaining a stable stance.

Upon realising he can't get past my defence, he lunges for a desperate uppercut. However, his actions are predictable, allowing me to sidestep the boy. I move in with a retaliation of my own. A quick jab to the ribs finishes the duel. He keels over the slushy grass, gasping in pain. We are only using practice wooden swords, so there is no blood.

"Get up, boy," a cracked voice snarls from my right. I swivel my head to look at Sir Isaac, the squires' combat training master for the week.

Corcus, the boy, immediately clambers up onto his feet and salutes the wizened knight, in spite of the agony he's barely holding back. Three years ago, I might have given him a reassuring clap on the back. Today, I stand in silence and salute Sir Isaac too.

"Drop to the ground and give me fifty press-ups," Sir Isaac addresses him without pity. Corcus, in return, gives a faint whimper before he complies. No one dared to go against Sir Isaac, painful bruise on the ribs or no.

"Do you know why you're doing this?" screams our trainer. His face purples when the answers are laboured pants. "Do you?"

"Yes – sir," Corcus breathes between gasps.

"Your stance was unbalanced, your skill with your weapon lousy, and you were too slow. Understand?" Sir Isaac shrieks again.

"Yes – sir."

"Good, because you'll do fifty more."

Corcus groans helplessly. He's currently at press-up number twenty. It looks like it'd be quite a while before he'll reach number one hundred. Sir Isaac suddenly wheels around to face me; I give him full attention.

"And you"—he jabs a finger in the air towards me as he speaks—"don't think that just because you have the Champion's advantage means that you can beat everyone." His eyes sidle towards a dark figure in the distance. It is currently duelling with another squire. My cheeks heat up ever so slightly.

"I understand, sir," I reply evenly.

Sir Isaac grunts and walks away to supervise the other boys. I release the breath I'd been holding, beginning to observe the dark figure that Sir Isaac so subtly praised. His features blur as he moves swiftly against his sparring partner, a dancing wraith against a bungling monkey. He is the only squire—and possibly the only human being ever—who can match me in a duel. He's the Champion of Pst. Ailith—the lady of war and strength, the rival Pietist to my own patron.

From what I can see, he is only playing with his opponent. He's dodging every single attack with effortless grace, but he makes no move to counter. Perhaps he's just trying to encourage his opponent, to give a sense of confidence. Or he's trying to wear the other boy down. Badly.

It's only quite a while later when the Champion truly starts his offence, when his opponent is slowly being bogged down by exhaustion. My rival unleashes the strength he'd been holding back, contorting his opponent's elbow with a well-timed twist of the sword. The unfortunate mortal's grip on his wooden sword is loosened, and he drops it onto the ground. Sir Isaac, as if he had anticipated a loss, is already there to dole out the appropriate punishment. The victor salutes the knight. I watch as words are exchanged between them.

The Champion then catches my eye and smirks at me. I look away from Gilbert; I cannot associate myself with anyone. Especially him.

Corcus gives a final grunt and heave as he completes his last press-up. My mind must've blanked out for quite a while. His bulging arms tremble with the effort to push himself back up onto his feet. "We'll get in line. Wait for Sir Isaac's next orders." I sound like an icy general even in my own ears.

Maybe he is too tired, or maybe he does not care anymore, but Corcus doesn't respond with the usual jeer and hoot. I've had to grow accustomed to these taunts. Part of my father's instructions are to isolate myself from everyone. However, he went too far earlier this morning—he provoked me to a duel. With my pride as Champion being challenged, I accepted. Otherwise I'd be sparring with Gilbert.

After we place the wooden swords back into the weapon stands, we join the neat rows the squires form in the centre of the training field. I recall the first time I had arrived here, four years ago. The lines we had formed were straggly and undisciplined, and the fresh recruits were unfortunate enough to be graced with the presence of Sir Isaac during the very first week. He'd flogged us down until almost all of us were left sprawling on the floor; even I was having difficulty in keeping a straight mind. I was thirteen then.

"Hie! You mammoth-sloth! Stop your slugging and get in line like a proper squire!" Sir Isaac's shriek pierces the brief period of tranquillity. The last squire makes a mad scramble for our group. In my peripheral vision, I note an alien figure hanging by the side lines, watching us. It is tall, powerful and decidedly masculine.

"Hail to the master who bestows us with his knowledge!" we chorus. It's a signal that we are ready to receive our next orders.

"Useless dirt-hogs," Sir Isaac mutters under his breath before screaming: "Is that the best you shrimps can do?"

The figure on the side lines starts to approach us. In response, our trainer rears his head back, not unlike a startled bull. We all crane our necks to get a better look. When we do, several of us gasp in awe.

It's the Bane of Perinus—the highest ranking general in the King's Army.

Sir Kendrick looks every bit the warrior he attempts to carry himself as. Built like one, he has bold, coarse features slightly softened by a golden halo crowning his head. His hand, rough and calloused and ridden with battle scars, rests on his famous sword, Bloodslayer. Its pommel is a fearsome bear head baring its teeth. Piercing brown eyes scan our lines. We straighten ourselves.

"Fine lot you've got here, Sir Isaac," he comments cordially.

"Wait till you see regular training. They won't be so fine anymore," Sir Isaac snorts.

Sir Kendrick smiles sympathetically at the disgruntled knight. He then turns towards us. "Squires, I have something very important to announce." His words make us hold our breaths in anticipation—it isn't every day that the Bane decides to pay the squires an impromptu visit.

Sir Kendrick starts to pace up and down before our lines. His brows are creased in worry, an expression not usually present in a born warrior. "As all of you know, a Bane of Perinus must always have an apprentice ready to take over his position lest he is slain in battle. However, I didn't see a need to have an apprentice. Until now, that is.

"I've been putting off my selection of an apprentice to my position for too long, and I hope that it's not too late," sighs the man. My ears begin to tingle. Sir Kendrick was apprentice to my father before he assumed the position.

"So, throughout these three months, all squires and knights will be assessed to determine the winner of apprenticeship. The Knights of Elder—who are no longer legible for the position—will be conducting regular assessments. As for me, I will only be present during the final assessment, at the festival of Fernicia.

"Now remember, all of you will be treated equally, no matter of heritage, size, age or rank. So every man has a fair chance. Also remember that although I make the final decision, a lot of the victory depends on your regular performance. And it's not just about swords and fighting; paperwork, history and the creative arts are important too. It pays to be a well-rounded representative of the king."

Several of us cough. Most of them had assumed that all knights had to do is fight. Their main reason for joining the squires' brigade.

"Am I understood, squires?" the Bane hollers.

"Yes, sir!" we chant, full of gusto.

"Good. Because your assessment starts now. Good luck, squires. May Pst. Bronicus and Pst. Ailith be with you. I'll be taking my leave now, old boy." The last sentence is for Sir Isaac.

"Pah, gone be with you." The corners of Sir Isaac's mouth are turned upwards though. Sir Kendrick laughs—a broad, booming sound—and walks back into the inner ring of the castle. The squires watch wistfully after him.

"What are you sea-slugs still doing here? Get on with your usual sparring partners!" growls Sir Isaac. He never says anything without a hint of rudeness. We all rush to get ready for our next activity.

"Constantine! Are you dreaming? To the sword stands!" The knight's yell draws me out of my dreamy stagger; I was heading for the archery marks. My little slipup earns a few snickers from the squires. But the teasing barely registers in my head; even Sir Isaac's dressing down does little to rattle me. I shake myself and run back towards the opposite direction.

My brain buzzes.

******

A tolling bell sounds from the cathedral tower. I count it—two rings. Two in the morning. Yet I still can't sleep. Ever since Sir Kendrick made his announcement that he would be selecting an apprentice soon, I've not quite been in my normal state of mind.

Win the apprenticeship, Constantine, my father's voice rings in my ear.

A chill runs down my spine despite the fact that I'm sheltered from the unforgiving winds. I have to win this apprenticeship. Otherwise everything—everything that I've suffered, everything that I've slaved for, will be all for naught.

My muscles grow restless. I roll out of my bed and light a candle. That makes it three candles used in total for today, one more than the daily prescription of two. But I've always scrimped and saved till a considerable stash of emergency supplies was accumulated. I pull on a thick outer-coat and calfskin trousers, before slipping into a pair of heavy leather boots. After hastily throwing a cloak over my shoulders, I place the candle in a lamp and sneak outside.

Letting the fresh coolness fill my lungs, I suck in the night air. Everything seems tranquil under the crescent moon, its glow casting an unearthly layer of light over everything it watches. The wind whistles in my ears; the trees rustle in my presence.

A quiet symphony of the night engulfs me.

I walk towards the castle's cathedral near the entrance gates, instinct and familiar markings guiding my way. A rabbit-shaped bush here, a pot-like marking on the tree there. There are a few guards patrolling the area. Fortunately, they all spot the Nobleman Insignia on my cloak clasp and don't stop to question me. As a precaution, I pinch the hood over my features, in fear of the wind flapping it back to reveal my face.

When a dome-shaped building slowly comes into view, I slow my pace, resolute to enjoy the remainder of my walk. I halt in front of the cathedral, drinking in its formidable structure. Instead of pushing the elaborately carved doors open into the nave, I head to the clusters around the back. A young abbot of Pst. Amiticus should be in the tower manning the bell. Other than him though, there won't be any other human beings about here at this hour.

There is no door leading into the cluster; a wide, gaping arc of concrete serves as its entrance. I kiss my knuckle and ask for the blessings of the Pietists before I go in. Altars to the Pietists are erected all along the edge of the circle, with the stained glass portraits of their respective patrons looming behind them. It's supposedly in imitation of the Pietists' Circle. Their faces condemn me as I enter the structure, criticising and unforgiving towards an abomination of the Ancient Religion.

I bow my head while I pass each altar, finally lifting it as I approach my patron, Pst. Bronicus. His stained glass version depicts him with a square nose, a thin mouth and shrewd, intelligent eyes. He has an imposing stance—he is in battle position, with a sword and shield in hand. A lion, the supposedly animal representative of his spirit guards his side, ready to pounce. A very intricate depiction. Most portraits usually give no attention to these details, only emphasising the fierce scowl on his face and the lion emblazoned on his shield.

I kneel before his altar. Words that are barely audible move my lips.

"Please, if it's your will, let me be the Bane so that I can please my father." My shuddering breath forms a tiny, wispy cloud rising into the air. "I have tried to be a good and faithful servant to you, milord, but in return I have suffered for most of my life. I beg you now to allow me the chance to redeem myself in my father's eyes, so that I'd be worth something to him."

Pst. Bronicus doesn't respond.

I rise to my feet and drop a coin offering into the altar bowl. "Please," I say, hoping that he will send me a miraculous sign to assure me, even if it is a falsehood. The stained colours of moonlight casts a shadow about my feet. 'Not for today,' it seems to say.

Bowing my head, I make my exit. As I step out of the clusters, I kiss my knuckle again. It is cold and frigid.

A tear had rolled onto it.

******
A/N : The drawing is a character sketch of Constantine by yours truly. Let me know what you think about it and the story so far!

Cluster - A shrine to the Pietists; its origins are first established in the Ruins of Alcoriev.