To my surprise, there's no visible damage to the scrinaius.

I half-expected the shrine to have some sections reduced into rubble, but everything is as it was when Gilbert and I had first come here. Of course, all Diomedes had really done was slam me against the wall with a maelstrom. All the objects within the room are protected by barriers of some sort, I can probably assume—a mere gust of wind wouldn't destroy the area.

"I can't see anything," grumbles Allura. Very remiss of us to have not brought along one of the unlit torches in the passageway leading into the catacombs. At least we could've improvised and try to coax a fire. I open my mouth to suggest that she stay here while I go back for a torch, since I have far superior eyesight, only to be stopped short when she begins chanting.

Staring at her in bewilderment, I unconsciously become entranced by the steady, yet erratic way she pronounces the words. It's like water plunging off a cliff, crashing into the rocks below, wild and unyielding in its strength. Then, it slows, it smooths out, the torrent reduced into a steady trickle, one river separated into several channels. It's some ancient language that I cannot recognise. At the same time though, it seems familiar.

Then the room explodes with light.

Runic scripts glow into life before me, travelling all over the surface of the scrinaius, from the bookshelves cut into stone, to the ceiling depicting the origin story of Gaiatea. They shimmer with unearthly radiance, scrawling, blinding words of red, gold, blue and every colour imaginable, making me feel as though the stars from the Seventh Heaven themselves have descended upon me. I stare in awe, totally transfixed by the sight.

"What did you do?" I ask quietly, in fear that sudden loudness may break the spell.

Allura laughs lightly. "I just said a few phrases in Ancient Cambirian to activate the bindings, of course." She says it so easily, as though it was as simple as breathing. However, the marks swarming around me state otherwise. I don't know whether to be excited by the prospect of discovering something like this, or to be frightened by this ancient, untapped power, as old as the earth itself.

I back away from the scrinaius, contemplating to bolt away as fast as I can. Yet something about the runes soothe me, compelling me to stay. With my fear growing untethered, I cast a quick glance at Allura; she seems equally entranced as I am by the runes, not even noticing my panic. Only when I don't speak for a long time does she notice that something is amiss. She turns towards me with a frown. "What's wrong?"

Forcing out a laugh in attempt to disguise my trepidation, I say, "I'm sorry. I'm just not used to...this." I sweep my hand over the room; she fills in the blank immediately, giving me an understanding look.

"It must be overwhelming for you," she says absently, stating the obvious. Her eyes take on a distant, faraway look; she's reminiscing about something. "It was for me too."

"How did you know? About the spells here, I mean."

Her eyes flick back towards the glowing runes. "There are a lot of secrets in the library, many that you do not want to know." Her voice is soft, but her tone clearly indicates that she doesn't want me to dig any deeper. I give a curt nod; no one understands the need for privacy more than me, I think.

To distract myself from the gnawing fear in the pit of my stomach, I walk towards one of the bookcases, a hand reaching out to take out one of the books. The runes react to my touch, swarming to gather at where my skin meets stone. The air here is warm and liquid-like, how happiness would feel. However, it forms a solid barrier all the same, not allowing my finger to get into an inch's reach within the books.

"I'd expected that." Allura has walked to my side, solemnly bobbing her head. "You have necromancer blood, that's why they don't attack you. Unless you're going to cast the spell that breaks the barrier though, it won't allow you to touch the books."

I feel crestfallen. I thought that the barrier would break at the touch of the Deathslayer, and that I could skim the books to see if there's anything I can use to defeat Diomedes. Allura notices my disappointment, squeezing my shoulder to comfort me.

Despite feeling more comfortable around her than most people, I still back away, not quite ready to allow anyone to get close to me. Hurt flickers on her face for the briefest of moments; guilt lodges in my throat.

I turn towards the alatrigne before the mural of the lion. Squinting suspiciously at the imitation of the Royal Emblem imprint on the front, I try to formulate theories in mind, reasons why I had been overwhelmed with a raging surge of heat after I had touched it. Nothing comes to mind.

"I see that you know about the detricus," remarks Allura, stepping to my side once more.

"Detricus?" I've never heard the term before.

"It's the way the Ancient Cambirians captured history, weaving their tales through sculptures, murals and mosaics, back before script writing and paper were invented. This whole room is a tribute to the art," she explains. "Much more creative and beautiful than the Perinians' sordid way of simply recording everything down," she adds with a grin.

"Then what about the books?" I point at the bookshelves.

"Those were most likely a later addition, only after the King Brom the Magnificent overthrew the Runithilard bloodline. Necromancy was seen as an art in Ghaerlere before Diomedes came along, and the practitioners had probably decided that this would be an excellent place for their monthly...rituals."

"Ah."

"The bindings were probably put up after most necromancers got executed during the Dark Ages, intended to seal the most powerful books away from prying eyes," she rattles on. "It must had taken enormous power to perform a spell on such a large scale, including the binding on the entrance. A lot of necromancers had died in the process; they say that magic drains up a lot of energy. You feel it too, don't you? They are like small whips in the air, caressing your skin, beckoning you to summon them back to Life."

I shiver just as a small breeze ruffles my hair—could it really be a dead necromancer's spirit? "Yes," I say. "Why can I feel...the dead here more keenly than when in other places?"

"Several theories. One: The barrier between Life and Death here is much weaker, considering that a multitude of spirits might have been summoned here a long time ago. Two: Multiple deaths in one place always weakens the veil between worlds. Three: The necromancers died gruesomely; it'll be logical for them to be more aggressive than most spirits." She smiles sardonically at me. "So, has any of them tried to tickle you yet?"

"You mean, you truly feel them?" I ask curiously. The sensations I experience are as if someone is brushing against me, trying to get a good grip on my skin, yet is too afraid to do so.

She opens her mouth to reply in the affirmative. However, she immediately gets toppled over by some unseen force. I quickly catch her before her head can smash against the ground. "What was that?"

"The ghosts, of course," she replies with a wry smile. Her laidback expression is soon replaced with something more serious. "Wait, are you saying that they...avoid you?"

I explain how the breezes seem to merely brush against me, rather grab me whole, like what had just happened to her. Her brows furrow, struggling to come up with a plausible answer to this oddity. "Strange. Even though I don't have necromancer blood, they seem to be very bold when approaching me..." Then she shoots me a look. "You are a necromancer, aren't you?"

I don't say anything.

She taps her chin thoughtfully, smiling at my silence. "I guessed it when you managed to open the entrance. The inscriptions glowed far more brightly than it ever did when I touched the door, so I theorized that you must have true necromancer blood in you."

I look away, trying to hide the heat of shame washing over my face. She's too intelligent and shrewd by half. No amount of protesting would do me any good.

"By the way, you haven't answered my question the other day," she suddenly says. I feel myself stiffening.

"What question?" I try to dodge the inevitable, praying that my cynical tone will discourage her intentions.

"Are you a woman?" I can't help but lock eyes with her from the sheer magnetism of her gaze.

No...I can't completely trust her. Not yet, I think. "No," I reply out loud.

"You don't trust me, do you?" she retorts with a wry smile. "I should have known that it would be very difficult to extort the truth out of you, considering that you've managed to hide your secret so well for so many years.

I don't dare to come up with an answer to that statement. Whatever I say—whether intentionally or unintentionally—might damn me. But I realise with horror that she does know my secret; she's only trying to coax me into admitting it. She already knows so much...Maybe—just maybe—she is true in her intentions, genuinely willing to extend trust and friendship towards me.

She's already revealed her deepest secrets to me. Should I return the favour?

I close my eyes and bite my tongue, making my decision. Pst. Bronicus, do not make me regret this. But I'm so, so tired.

"Allura, I—I'm...the Deathslayer," I confess softly, subtly revealing my true identity to her.

Perhaps I'd known that I would have to tell her eventually, all this while. Only now, when the stakes are stacked so high, I must tell her. I can't bear this burden alone. Better her than Gilbert, who would probably spill everything out to Sir Kendrick; he's infamous for being unable to keep a secret.

Her expression remains immobile and unreadable. I do the same, trying not to reveal my fear and anguish. "You have Miraterciel?" I don't reply—I don't have to. "That's how you were able to defeat the ghost then, during the first assessment?" Oddly enough, she doesn't broach the subject of my gender.

In answer, I draw the sacred athame out, almost flinging it towards Allura. I still can't quite look at the knife in the same way as I did before. She catches it deftly, unsheathing it to inspect the blade. Her eyes grow wide, and her expression is not unlike a cat at the sight of its next meal. Then she drops the knife, letting it clatter to the ground, just as her face turns green with sickness.

She doubles over and wretches onto the floor.

"Allura!" I hurry to her side, pressing a palm against her forehead. She's gotten frighteningly hot, as if she's going to explode anytime. My heartbeat quickens; my mind begins to blur. No! I have to pull myself together and react rationally.

To my surprise, she recovers, and starts to laugh dryly. "I should have known better than to pick up a knife meant to kill necromancers when I have one of their curses. I'll be fine soon." I glare at her sceptically; she responds with a weak gesture of her hand. "Put the knife away first. If it continues to be out of its sheath, its aura will weaken me. Don't worry, I should gain my full strength soon."

She cradles her left arm carefully, her facial muscles squeezed with pain. She's trying to hold back the curse, I realise. I hastily scoop Miraterciel up and sheath it. Almost instantly, normal colour returns to her cheeks. She relaxes on the floor, although her iron grip around her arm doesn't slacken. "Are you sure you're alright?" She seems better, but still, I have to make sure.

No words of assurance come. Stumbling a little, she manages to stand up with my help. She jumps about experimentally, looking almost comical in her robes.

"I take that as a 'yes'," I say, relief gushing into my voice. "I'm so sorry, Allura."

Her kind expression forgives me, saying that she accepts me for who I am, even if I myself don't. Most of all, she accepts me as a friend. My eyes burn; tears threaten to spill out. "I'm sorry," I repeat.

Allura gathers me into a tight embrace. I stiffen at first, then slowly relax, burying my head in her robes of silk, hot tears dampening the material. "I've wet your clothes," I mumble. At least I can blame everything that has happened on the lateness of the hour.

She pulls away and props up my limp form, gripping me by the arms. "Don't apologise—never apologise," she says vehemently. "You're a Daughter of War. Spawn of the Devil or no, I accept you. I accept you as the Champion of Pst. Bronicus, Constantine. I accept you as the Deathslayer."

All I can do is stare at her.

"I accept you, for who you are, what you were, what you will be," she finishes quietly.

"I—I accept you too," I stutter stupidly, automatically returning her kindness.

Her grip on me tightens. "We are women of the world, Constantine. Men do not want us in their territory. No matter, we make our own territory."

It's almost like a distant, faraway dream, the day when I can truly be a woman, be myself, and not parade around in an ill-fitting disguise. Despite the years of dressing as a boy, the notion of truly wanting to be one has never crossed my mind.

I'm thinking dangerously, actually pining for the day where I can go about without any fear of having my true gender exposed. During any other time, I might put a stop to this dangerous line of thoughts. For now, I allow myself to continue dreaming, to revel in all of its unrealistic glory.

Together, we slowly get up, and without another word, exit the scrinaius. The runes fade away, as though sensing that there's no need for them anymore. The door automatically slides to a close as soon as we step out of the area. Shoulder to shoulder, we leave our point of an unspoken oath to each other, to finally be rid of our demons and build a new, better world.

For the first time in a long time, I feel comforted.

******

A/N: Please don't forget to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to theyesterdaykidd for putting up with the ridiculous cliffhangers, and also for granting this humble author vote spams which totally made her day. Thank you so much for sticking with Constantine's story!

Detricus - A Cambirian form of art depicting legends or historical events. It can be represented through paintings, murals, mosaics, sculptures as the like; the only limit is the artist's imagination.