Image -- Rough approximation of King Terrell.

******

The sky is a murky grey, as though all life had been sucked out of it. Its usually brilliant blue and gold hues are pale and muted. It seems to be responding to my mood—turbulent and sombre. Every time I turn around a corner, I jump at the slightest disturbance. My nerves really have been betraying me as of late.

I can't help it, I know. For the first time in my life, I feel fear—real, undulating fear. An actual wraith has been sighted within castle grounds, and what's worse is that Diomedes is coming. For me. With every passing second, I'm more and more convinced that Abner told the truth—that Diomedes has resurrected himself. Who else would have the audacity to revive the Dark Arts? A long-lost disciple? Perhaps, but I highly doubt that he had a disciple in the first place.

As my boots make sinking imprints into the mud, my mind runs through the brawl I had with the ghost again and again. The feeling of my windpipe being crushed under the ghost's relentless grip, the knowledge that you are about to meet your doom flashing before your eyes, the inability to fight back...

"Squire Rutherland!"

My mind snaps back into focus. I make a mental promise to myself that I won't allow myself to wallow in self-pity. The voice comes from a court herald, the one whom I'd first seen the day when Gilbert and I were supposed to meet for the first council of war.

"His Royal Majesty requires your immediate presence," he says in between puffing gasps, obviously trying to recover from the winded effort it took to catch up with me.

A sigh escapes my lips. I was about to ask for an immediate audience with the king anyway. With a strengthened gait, I follow the herald into the inner ring, saluting the guards on watch duty during the uneventful afternoon. Their extremely bored expressions hint that they would rather have a ghost invading the castle grounds during their patrol duty than pace about like an angry lion on a leash.

Once again, I am led into the decrepit, seemingly abandoned room (code name: flying cabbages). I suddenly realise that I will be left as the only Champion-cum-squire to face a council of the most influential and wealthy men in Perinus. After our conversation, I went out to fetch Galennus Haelen, who was twiddling his thumbs nervously in the reception room of the Galennus workhouse, his assistant boy nowhere in sight. The physician later shooed me out of his workroom in horror when he'd realised that his patient had fallen asleep from exhaustion, presumably because I was the culprit who had expended all of Gilbert's remaining energies.

With a shudder, it dawns upon me that Gilbert's presence has been a comfort to me in the council. I wasn't the only one who had to withstand all the pressure the lords and barons impressed upon the Champions. Now though, I'd have to answer for not one, but two people, when I already have trouble defending myself.

The herald pushes the doors open, and announces my arrival in a clear baritone. I drop onto one knee, murmuring the customary respects one is supposed to pay to the king. With the words 'Arise, squire', I take my seat.

True, I'd just admitted it, yet the sight of the empty seat across me still sends spindly nerves crawling all over me. The veil of calmness I barely managed to wrench back seems like it would slip through my fingers once more. I gulp nervously and try to look as nonchalant as possible.

The council starts as soon as I am seated. King Terrell looks calm and composed as he readies to conduct the meeting. However, I notice faint worry-creases forming at the corners of his mouth. Straightening his posture, he says, "Noblemen, today our fortress has witnessed an alarming alacrity—a ghost has invaded the outer ring during an assessment for knights and squires organised by the Knights of Elder."

To my surprise, no one utters a single word, not even a squeak of shock nor an ejaculation of fear. Instead, the men remain subdued, silent, as though some unknown force has gripped them by their throats.

"Fortunately, Squire Rutherland—also known as the esteemed Champion of Pst. Bronicus - has managed to defeat the ghost. He has possibly saved many castle inhabitants from a gory and merciless death." King Terrell gives me an approving nod, and I bow my head as a form of acknowledgement. My eyes find that my fingers are clasping and unclasping themselves angrily.

"However, now that the first sighting of a ghostly soldier has been sighted here in Cordair, we must make haste. Obviously the reports from the Orientals were true. We cannot ignore the matter any longer.

"For now, we can all form theories and speculations on the necromancer behind all of this, but I suggest that we deal with the more pressing matter at hand—how do we defeat the ghosts? Or in the very least, how can we escape from one?"

The King pauses for a moment, only to stare each and every one of the occupants in the room.

"Squire Rutherland." The sudden addressing of my name nearly makes me jump in my seat. "Would you mind to share your experience of your fight with the ghost?"

Would I mind? Of course. However, a polite, direct refusal may result in my tongue being cut off, either by orders of the king himself or my father. I feel like the latter will be much more likely to perform the deed. Besides, I already braced myself for this question.

Then why are no words coming out of my mouth?

"Squire Rutherland?"

I try to calm my racing thoughts, running my tongue over my cracked lips. In a fairly convincing voice, I start to speak, "I suspect that it is only with my newfound abilities—as you've witnessed yourself during my duel with Squire Falkner, sire—that I was able to defeat the ghost. And only then, barely." That is the truth. I did barely manage to escape the situation alive. The room suddenly seems a lot chillier to me.

"That's it?" It's Baron Samareal. My silence comes as confirmation of his concern. "That's it!" he screams. "The lives of many innocents are endangered and that's all you can offer us? The Pietists must be toying with us now!"

"Baron Samareal, as a devout believer of the Ancient Religion, I suggest that you retract your previous statement," says the king stoutly.

The baron looks ready to protest—the king's words only helped to kindle the spark within—but he recognises authority when he sees it. Kissing his knuckles and raising his little finger towards Heaven, he murmurs, "May the all merciful Pietists forgive my brash actions and condemning words."

King Terrell gives an approving nod. "Now we will proceed with the matter at hand." He turns towards me. I square my shoulders. "Squire Rutherland, if you permit, I'd like to ask a few more questions in detail. Despite his harsh words earlier, Baron Samareal is correct. You are not revealing all the necessary details to us."

I bow my head. "My apologies, sire," I say. "I was not aware I was doing so."

"Apology accepted, squire. Now, I'd like you to explain the exact details of how you managed to defeat the ghost. Apparently the wraith takes no harm from normal weapons. According to witnesses though, you've managed to stab the ghost with a knife. Once it took the hit, it dissipated."

Miraterciel. How careless of me, to not check if it's still in my possession. I feel like I'm much more at risk to danger now.

"I analysed the wraith's abilities, and I discerned that once it made contact with me, it becomes hard matter for a moment. I timed my attacks so that they would connect with the ghost's being when it connected with mine."

"Interesting." The king raises a brow. "Why did you elect to not divulging this detail with us at first, squire?"

Beside me, Father makes a faint grunting noise of disapproval. "I wasn't sure if it was an effect of my Mark or if the ghost truly had that weak point," I reply evenly. "For all we know, the ghost may only be destroyed in the hands of a Champion of War."

"Wise reasoning, Squire Rutherland." King Terrell regards me with a faintly respectful light in his eyes. Then focusing his attention upon the rest of the council, he continues, "Messengers shall be sent to all acting lords and barons of the major provinces—since most of you have just come from there—to inform them to fortify their defences and be on the alert for any attacks from ghosts. The other countries of Ghaerlere must be informed of this incident as well. Chancellor Lucan, could you draft out the messages on paper by the morrow?"

The chancellor is seated fourth to the king's right, just beside my father. The middle-aged man—who is surprisingly young to be holding such a high position in court—inclines his head. "But of course, Your Majesty. The letters will be ready for you to inspect and seal tomorrow morning."

"Sire," I quickly jump in before he intends to dismiss the war council, "there is another matter I wish to tell you."

His brows furrow together. "Out with it," he says tersely.

I take in a deep breath. I do not know is the news I'm about to share will sit well with the others. "Diomedes has returned. It was he who summoned the ghost."

Just as I expected, disbelievingly cries ring out throughout the room. Father actually tries to kick me under the table; I anticipated it and dodge the blow. King Terrell stares at me, as though questioning my sanity.

"Squire Rutherland, what made you come to such a conclusion?" The king's tone is cutting, warning me to withdraw my statement before it's too late.

"The ghost told me so." The lie rolls off my tongue so easily. But then again, telling him the truth would be too hard. So there.

"Lord Rutherland, I thought that you had slayed Diomedes long ago?" The accusation is abruptly directed towards my father.

"I thought so too." I don't see it, but I can feel his glare upon me. "I saw it with my own eyes—Lord Hubert and Kendra had combined their abilities to tear the necromancer apart. He disintegrated in front of us. Last we checked, he had no part of his body still intact. Captain Eldric will gladly testify to that."

Sir Eldric, upon the mention of his name, nods in affirmation. "That's true, sire." His words sound grudging. I study him more carefully—it seems that he doesn't like my father very much, although they had worked together twenty years ago.

"I wonder..." A new gleam comes into King Terrell's eyes. "We don't know much of necromancy, so how can we say that the idea of Diomedes rising once more is improbable? Who can say that a necromancer—an extremely powerful one, at least—cannot bring himself back from the dead?"

The captain coughs tentatively. "Pardon me, Your Majesty, but I find the idea improbable. After all, Diomedes had died twenty years ago. Why the two decade wait before he wants to unleash his revenge? Why now, of all times?"

I try not to answer: Because of me. I'm not supposed to exist, and he wants my blood.

King Terrell releases a tired sigh, leaning onto his seat and rubbing his stubble with a hand. "At any rate, we still cannot confirm if the necromancer truly is Diomedes. I appreciate you telling us this though, Squire Rutherland. This doesn't change much of our plans really—we will always prepare for the worst."

The noblemen shoot me suspicious looks. I don't blame them. The idea that Diomedes has resurrected himself is ridiculous enough, more so when the suggestion is from a lowly squire. Yet I don't find myself cowering under their attention. If anything, it makes me feel more assured that I'm standing on the right ground—that everything Abner said was truth.

Just then, I feel a slight cramping sensation in my lower abdomen. Warm liquid trickles in my breeches. I struggle not to leap up and dash out of the room in blind panic.

I can feel it—I'm bleeding.

I hadn't had it for more than a year now, ever since Father had provided me with a certain blend of herbs, supposed to be brewed in hot water and consumed ritualistically every morning. However, my hectic schedule of late has led to me forgetting that particular routine for the past two weeks. Thank Pst. Kiaran that the breeches I have on is of a dark colour, and that my tunic should be long enough to cover up any visible stains when I stand up.

"Squire Rutherland?"

Don't fret. Stay calm, I tell myself in my head. Just endure it for possibly another half-hour; it won't be heavy for quite a while yet. "Yes?"

"Can you vouch for Squire Falkner and yourself that you two will not be tempted to fall into the Dark Arts while you two are tasked with researching?" asks the king.

I nearly fall off my seat. Clearly, I had been spacing out for quite a while now. My mind stumbles over the proper reply I should conjure. At least I know that a refusal would result in punishment. "Yes, sire." I curl my right hand into a fist, resting it against the heavy thudding of my heart.

"Excellent." Yet a hint of doubt creeps into his voice—maybe he spotted the lightly glazed look in my eyes. "Quinnian Allura shall be informed of this new order as soon as possible."

What, in the name of Pst. Manofrey, had the King ordered Gilbert and me to do?

"So, for now, all we can do is to assume that Squire Rutherland's analysis of the ghost is accurate, and that the wraith won't disappear only in the hands of a Champion of War." King Terrell presses his lips into a grim line. "That, and what Squire Rutherland's claim of Diomedes' rising is true.

"If I may, Your Majesty, why do you not task the Quinnians with the research?" asks Captain Eldric. "Wouldn't it be better if scholars of more wisdom and experience handled this...this damning task?"

What damning task?

King Terrell smiles in response. "Because I trust them."

******

Because I trust them.

It was probably a ploy to gain the undying loyalty of the Champions of War. But still, what did I do to deserve any trust—even if it's only temporary—when my whole life has been a lie?

Maybe I should end it once and for all, let all inhabitants in Gaiatea rot and die for all I care. Why should I help them anyways, since their own superstitions had forced me into my position...

Stop!

Tears are threatening to well and spill out of my eyes. For comfort, I cast my eyes towards the setting sun—streaks of gold, orange and red race across the sky, blending into a multitude of a thousand unnamed colours. The storm clouds had long rolled away, leaving peace and serenity in its wake.

The council had been dismissed soon after the king's stunning words. I'm now hurrying towards my room in the squires' quarters, so that I can quickly scrub away any visible blood stains on my breeches, and so that I can finally rewind and try to calm my nerves.

Deep breaths, Constantine, I tell myself. Sort everything out in your mind.

One, the bleeding will be fine. I'll just have to be more careful for the next few days.

Two, this is not the first time I've felt despair smothering me like a suffocating blanket. I can get through it. Besides, I'm not the suicidal type—I'm actually afraid of death. But since everyone is afraid of dying, I don't suppose that one more person joining in the fray would do any harm.

And three...

I have to focus—I must. To do everything a Champion is supposed to do, to protect the people, even if it comes with a cost that seems impossible to pay.

The familiar outline of the door into my chambers greets me; I quicken my pace. If there's one thing I can look forward to now, it's a refreshing bath.

I push the door open, nearly smashing the wood against the cracked walls. With a smile, I scan the furnishings of my room—simple, bare, but comforting and familiar. The smile fades when I see strange contours on my table.

My feet guide me towards it unconsciously; my arm automatically reaches behind to close the door. With trembling fingers, I pick up a cool, metallic object on the table—my knife, the replica of Miraterciel. I must have somehow lost it during the fight with the ghost. Perhaps a soldier had elected to silently return it to me?

Then my focus slowly moves towards the centre of my table, to see the handiwork of a certain someone, who had the audacity to use my knife to accomplish his task. It takes every fibre of my will to stop myself from screaming.

Because carved into the wood, in scrawling, pointed words, reads 'I know who you are'. 

*******

A/N: Dedicated to @dilettantesdo for being such an amazing supporter! If you want your share of crazy whispers, even crazier prophecies, and absolutely crazy parties, check out her story Nascent, a fantastic story of fantasy with hints of sci-fi woven into it beautifully!

Chancellor -- The officer of the royal household who serves as the monarch's secretary or notary.