I woke up to the sound of ringing bells.

Fire had invaded my dreams—the flames that were supposed to consume me, but didn't. Then I heard the cathedral bells and groggily pulled myself up from my slumber. I count eight bells, which sends me to a full blown panic. My squire duties are supposed to start at precisely eight in the morning. No more, no less, otherwise Sir Isaac would have my head.

He will soon.

I stumble out of bed, nearly tripping over my cloak, which I haven't bothered to take off. My candle still burns in its lamp, which miraculously did not make anything catch fire. I quickly snuff it out. Instead of folding my cloak neatly like I should, I unclasp, then fling it hastily onto my bed. I am wearing acceptable training clothes, so I don't change.

A tiny mirror sits on my table. I peer into it—its surface is caked and blurry with dust—barely discerning the unruliness of my copper-coloured hair and the circles under my eyes. I should be fine, so long as I constrain myself from yawning.

I run out of my room, slamming the door shut behind me. The squires' quarters are a long row of shambling wood and bricks, pasted together with dried clay. They're the only tumble-down and shoddy part of the castle grounds, kept out of sight in the farthest corner of the land. At least the training field is a mere sprint away.

I dash towards there, spotting the lines of squires filing in at the centre. With panic rising in me, I increase my speed, tearing through the wind. I land agilely in front of the training knight and salute him. Sir Isaac's face is blotchy with rage, making him look like a wrinkled sea-shroom. I almost laugh at the image, but then silently chastise myself for such thoughts at this time.

"Squire Rutherland!" His voice has never been particularly pleasing to the ears, and at this full-blown temper tantrum, there is nothing I can do but to feign deafness. Better than throwing my hands over my ears, trying to muffle the noise. "What time is it?"

"I do not know, sir," I say. It's approximately fifteen minutes past eight. However, I don't dare to give a reply; Sir Isaac has a ridiculously accurate sense of timing.

"Eight fifteen." Aha, I was correct. Unfortunately I didn't voice it; now I'll pay for the consequences. "You are fifteen minutes late for practice, squire! May I be so kind as to inquire why?"

"I overslept, Sir Isaac." The excuse is feeble. At least I'm not telling a falsehood.

"He overslept!" cries Sir Isaac with mock horror on his face. "Tell me squires, is that a plausible excuse for being late?"

"No sir!" they chant. I'm doomed.

"What is the punishment for being late, squires?"

"Twenty laps around the field and cleaning up the horses' muck, sir!" I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at Sir Isaac for introducing the 'horse muck' punishment.

Sir Isaac gives me a sardonic smile, which slowly fades away. "Unfortunately, Squire Rutherland won't have such a punishment imposed upon him today," he says gloomily. I stare at him incredulously. The old knight is definitely not one to miss an opportunity to dish out legal torture. The other squires look as though they want to hurl me into the horse muck.

He jerks his chin towards the trees. "Go, your father is waiting for you." My muscles tense up. Why did I have to oversleep on the day my father came?

I walk towards the figure concealing itself within the shadows. Only now when my mind isn't occupied with squire duties that I can see him. My father steps out of the shadows; the sudden sunlight thrust upon him turns his blond hair into a blinding flash. I keep my eyes focused on the golden buttons of his jerkin, not daring to look at him in the face.

"Come." He doesn't even bother with a cordial greeting first. Father wheels around towards the launders, silently commanding me to follow him. From afar, I can hear Sir Isaac screaming out orders to the squires.

We enter the second laundry. White sheets billow and bloom about us as the hot air steaming from the stoves whistles about them, like a lazy predator circling its prey. Laundry maids curtsy as we pass by. Nodding at them, Father turns towards a less-used section of the area. Hidden behind a clutter of broken tools and dusty bed sheets is a door. My father doesn't bother to bring out the skeleton key—the key to all doors in the castles—that he possesses. The door's hinge is rusty from years of disuse, and its lock is long broken. He pushes it open with ease, allowing us entrance into the area.

The interior never changes throughout the four years I've visited this room. Always the same layer of dust settling comfortably over everything; always the same rickety and wobbly table that stands by the side; always that same scent of loneliness wafting in the atmosphere. It's perfect for private conversations. Hardly anyone knows about this abandoned room.

Lacing my fingers behind my back, I take my usual place near the table. My father takes his usual place on the opposite side of the room. No matter where we go, there's always a distance between us.

"Sir Kendrick is finally looking for an apprentice," he says absently.

"Yes, Father."

He turns his full attention towards me now. "So why are you slacking off?" he accuses. I pretend not to know what he's talking about, giving him a confused stare. I know that it's a wrong move when his eyes start to blaze. "This morning, you were late."

"It was the first time I'd ever done such a thing, Father. My progress during these past years has been fairly commendable, as all the knights tell me. I assure you—"

"Then you should have been working hard on maintaining your clean record," he snaps. I clamp my mouth shut. "You know that the past years don't matter anymore. What is taken into consideration is your performance for the next three months. Don't say that I've never told you that!"

"I understand, Father."

"Do you really?" His eyes command me to look directly into his. They are a mixture of green and grey swirled together in a storm. A warrior's eyes. The main trait that I share with him. "Or do you take all the advantages you have when you are of noble heritage for granted?"

I barely manage to stop myself from flinching. "No Father. I have always appreciated the advantages I possess and use them wisely—"

He cuts me off again with a wave of his hand. "Never mind. Do not speak anymore of this matter. But I want your word that you will become the Bane one day."

I bow to him. "I will, Father." I've lost count of the times that I promised him this.

He remains silent. In his eyes, I see something that shakes me. They're filled with concern; a slight strain in the way he holds his head confirms my observation. I wonder if it's for me or for himself.

"I've been invited to stay in the castle upon the king's request," he announces without any foreshadowing. I've had to grow accustomed to this trait.

"Have you accepted?" I still hang on to the chance that he would refuse, reflected in the meekness of my tone.

"How can I gainsay the king's word?" retorts Father. My shoulders sag slightly. If he were in the castle grounds all the time, then the little bit of freedom I'd tasted during the past years would vanish.

"For how long?" My father can sense the tension behind the question.

"For as long as he needs me." Which means that he doesn't know either. He clears his throat before he proceeds: "In fact, I will be moving in now. Your mother and your siblings will remain at the family estate. I will be placed in the nobleman's quarters."

Of course he would. He is one of them, after all. At least it's far from the squires' quarters. Anyhow, whatever business he has with the king, it would be in the main structure, where us lowly squires aren't allowed to step foot into.

"I see." The relief is as clear as day in my voice.

Silence engulfs us, the only signs of life being the rise and fall of our chests and the little puffs of clouds formed by our breaths. I long to reach over and take my father's hand, to close the invisible chasm between us. But I know that unless I win the apprenticeship to Sir Kendrick, I can never reach across that gap. The thought seems to stake through my heart.

Suddenly, Father's body shifts—his shoulders hunch over, his knees bend slightly, and he leans forward. It's his attacking position. I stare at him, unsure of how to react at his sudden change in behaviour.

He springs. I brace for the impact, knowing full well that my strength would be more than enough to throw him off balance. The attack I expected doesn't come.

He launches himself onto the dust-coated table beside me.

I look at him in disbelief. What had possessed my father to make him do that? The table had been crushed under the force of his weight; it now lays jagged and useless on the floor.

"Father!" He is staring at the table, eyes glazed over. As though just waking up from a nightmare, he startles, pulling himself up onto his feet at my cry. I risk a step towards him, carefully studying his face, searching for any signs of emotion. Is it actually...fear? But then the shadow passes, and my father returns to his usual stoic countenance.

"I could have sworn upon the name of Pst. Zorah that I saw it..." he mumbles to himself.

"What was 'it', father?" He's beginning to frighten me now.

He pins me with a glare. His eyes are like waves in the sea, twisting and crashing, caught in the midst of a deadly cyclone. "None of your business, Constantine. Go back to Sir Isaac," he commands.

I comply, bowing before I exit the room. No one is in sight; presumably all the maids have gone to arrange their masters' clothing. Surely nobody heard the ruckus my father created in the room? I begin to leave the laundry. The cool, wooden floor beneath my boots absorbs the chilliness but not the echoes, which reverberate around like whispers of unknown secrets. I wrap my arms about myself, urging myself to walk faster.

I can't shake off the feeling that someone is watching me.

******

I retreat to the library after Sir Isaac released me from my squire duties. I'm his assigned squire, the one he's supposed to guide and take under his wing until I'm knighted. It does not account for why I'm always on the receiving end of his abrupt outbursts and frequent mood swings.

As I make my way down the rows of bookshelves that release the scent of yellowed paper into the air, I feel my head beginning to clear. I walk towards a familiar aisle, fingering the spines of fat, purposeful books. After some decisive strolling about, I take out an intricately bordered book, feeling its thick weight sinking into my arms. The Oppelius, the country's book of history. It's compulsory for every library to have at least one copy of it.

I cross over to the only table in the vast, living space. It is heavy and oaken; its shape melts perfectly with the design of the room, lending occupancy to the largely empty area. I sit at it.

'The country of Perinus was born after the victory of the first great king, King Brom the Invincible...' the first words of the first page leap into my eyes. I have read the book a thousand times before, and can recite it from back to front without a single tremor or break. Yet I still continue to look, for any hint that there was a female Champion of Pst. Bronicus in the past, in hopes that someone, no matter how long ago, had shared the same fate as I. There is none.

Despite the disappointment, my soul becomes entranced into the words. They capture me, binding me with their subtle attraction, releasing me from the world, lifting the weight from my weary shoulders. I see Thaddeus the Conqueror defeated shamefully by the Thiruthian soldiers; Delia sacrificing herself as a martyr to cease wars; Fergus smiling as he was crowned as the first Bane of the king.

The library doors creak open, breaking the spell cast over me. Sir Isaac's face looms at the entrance, his signature scowl present on his face. I raise my eyebrows in slight surprise. He's usually eager to be as far away from me as possible when he has the chance, opting to revel in some drunken conversation with the older knights at the various taverns in the capital, reminiscing about the 'good old days'.

"The king requests an audience with you tomorrow, Constantine," he announces. Slamming the Oppelius shut, I squint at him, waiting for him to burst into drunken guffaws and laugh off my seriousness. Surprisingly, he doesn't.

"What do you think I was? Joking?" he snorts as he sees my disbelief.

"Almost, sir," I respond tartly. I'm still a little angry at him for making me polish all the armour yesterday. He grunts at me and walks over. I stand up to salute him.

He draws out a sealed roll of paper from the inside of his jerkin. It's a wonder that it's not creased or bent the slightest bit. I hesitate a bit before I take the paper; it had been tainted with Sir Isaac's scent just a few seconds ago. The red wax sealing the paper is imprinted with a winged dragon circling a bonfire, the legendary dragon Honus guarding the Fire of Life. The Royal Seal.

"You're to present this to the guards at the inner gates tomorrow morning at eight-fifteen." He emphasises the timing to remind me of my escaped punishment for lateness this morning. "Do not lose it. And make sure you have a bath before you go. The king doesn't tolerate grimy squires."

I bow towards him. "Understood, sir."

He scoffs, then walks towards the doors, slamming them as he leaves the library. I return the Oppelius into its place respectfully. I can't continue reading with the idea of me meeting the king playing in my head. What does he want with me? Anything to do with my father? A train of speculations bombards my mind.

I draw in a deep breath. These thoughts can wait to resurface tomorrow. For now, I need time to myself. I decide to retreat back to my room in search of quiet solace.

*******

A/N : Portrait of Gilbert as the media.

Oppelius - The national history book of Perinus, which was first written by anonymous bards. Since then, a new edition is written every fifty years.