Music is Passing On by Yiruma. Play it!

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My nerves are high on edge today. Diomedes could come anytime soon, and I don't know where or how. What if his presence poses a danger to the castle dwellers? What if he decides to attack immediately after he knows that we've refused to comply with him? No matter how I try to convince myself that much careful planning has been done, and that we've done all we can to fortify Cordair, I still feel that we're never ready to war against the necromancer. I've seen first-hand how much damage a single ghostly soldier can do; I'd hate to imagine what would happen once a whole army arrives on our doorstep.

Our neighbours aren't help much either: all of them had balked at the idea of facing a ghost army. The proof? When our hawks had finally returned over the past week, all of the attached messages from the rulers had said that they wouldn't provide military support. The messages were scripted in two forms—painfully polite or devastatingly brutal. But the gist was there.

Some leaders did promise to help with supplies though. In fact, a batch of goods should be coming in from Thiruthia. The small country had split from the original Cambiria, but relations with them are still excellent. Other countries were not so forthcoming with their help. And the queen of Ravürk still hasn't replied. Not odd, considering the ridiculous weather the messenger hawks would have to brave.

Fair enough. I doubt that Perinus would help other countries in battle unless they were on extremely good terms with us. Self-preservation before all, in the end.

Gilbert too, is unusually quiet and reserved during our physical training with the knights. So quiet, that he eventually draws the attention of Sir Kendrick. The Bane has finally recovered sufficiently to assist in the soldiers' special training. About time too. Captain Eldric is well worn out by now, evident from the heavy circles lining his eyes every time he barks out an order.

"Squire Falkner, are you all right?" He approaches Gilbert just as we're returning our swords to the stands. Gilbert eyes him warily as a response, barely managing a half-hearted smile.

"I'm tired, but I'll be fine," he replies briefly. It occurs to me that Sir Kendrick isn't asking after me. Probably because I'm already quiet on a daily basis. Unfortunately, I haven't forgotten about the fact that he needs an apprentice, now more than ever. I haven't felt it for a long time—the weight of Father's expectations pressing upon me.

A sour note fills my mouth.

"Well then, remember to take care of yourself. You're a Champion of War, but you have your limits as well." Sir Kendrick gives Gilbert a hearty clap on the shoulder. Then as though he has just noticed my presence, he adds, "You too, Squire Rutherland. You are your father's son. However, even Rutherlands can be pushed past a breaking point."

"I'll take note of that, sir," I answer evenly. It suddenly strikes me that if I'm chosen as his apprentice, I would be a mere shadow to my father. I know it from the way he phrases his words. I don't think it was intentional—it's just that he expects me to live up to my father's name. Everyone does.

My heart plummets to my stomach.

"And I would like to thank the two of you"—he nods at both of us—"for releasing me from Diomedes' possession the other day."

"No thanks needed, sir." I decide to let Gilbert handle the talking. "It was our duty."

"No, you two deserve every bit of my thanks. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't be alive today, and Diomedes would have infiltrated so deeply into the court that he could topple Perinus from the inside." Sir Kendrick puts a hand over his heart as the words pour out from his mouth. His head is bowed low, a sign of respect. For us. My mouth parts ever so slightly. "I am in debt to the two of you."

"Sir Kendrick..." Even Gilbert is at a loss for words.

"I think the proper reply to this situation, squires, is 'You're welcome'," he says with a smile.

"Y—you're welcome," I stutter, in place of my stupefied fellow squire.

"Much better." Oddly, Sir Kendrick seems satisfied at this. "And excellent job on training the knights today. I couldn't have done it better myself."

He's most likely referring to Gilbert; our training styles vastly differ from each other. I have adopted a harsher and discipline-prioritised method; Gilbert uses motivation to boost up the soldiers' confidence. From what I've seen of him, Sir Kendrick tends to favour the latter method.

"Thank you sir," says Gilbert. I think even my counterpart realises it too.

"And I hear that Diomedes is going to pay a little visit today?" Sir Kendrick asks casually.

"That is the case, sir," I say.

"And no plans have been made to try and attack him while he hasn't brought his ghost army upon us?" The Bane cocks an eyebrow.

"No," we both reply firmly at the same time.

"Oh," Sir Kendrick says disappointedly. Yet a searing rage filters through his irises, filling them with a disturbing darkness.

"Sir, if it's not too intruding, may I know what it was like when Diomedes was possessing you?' I ask quietly. I've been meaning to question the Bane on the subject for a long time. Now seems like the best time to do so, when I'm already in conversation with him.

Sir Kendrick's eyes snap up to meet mine; the intensity of his stare bores into me. "I've been wanting someone to ask me that for a long time," he confesses hoarsely. "Pietists Above, it—it was terrifying, having no control over my mind and actions. I was watching everything through my own eyes, helpless.

"I felt like I was slowly beginning to lose the pieces of my sanity. That day when I tried to tell you two about the truth, I've only barely managed to wrest control back because Diomedes was distracted by something at the time," he continues, eager to spill everything out. "I suspect that if the ghost hadn't eventually left me, I would have been killed over time."

"Ghost? So it wasn't Diomedes himself who possessed you?" Gilbert asks, looking confused. Of course, he wasn't there when I saw the wraith leave Sir Kendrick's body.

"No. Diomedes had summoned a ghost to possess me. Not a very powerful one, but strong enough to take control of a normal man. From my knowledge of the Dark Arts, necromancers could never take over someone by themselves. They had to summon a spirit to do that instead."

"Oh, I see." Gilbert raises a questioning brow at me; I give a small nod. It seems logical. Even though necromancers can traverse through the Seven Heavens and Seven Hells, there should be a limit to how much they can do. He melts with slight relief at my support of Sir Kendrick's statement. "I'm...sorry."

"No need to be." The Bane offers a tight grin.

"Sir, how do you think Diomedes had the opportunity to possess you?" I blurt out, unable to contain the question stirring in my mind. If we figure out who had been in frequent contact with him for the past few months, then maybe we can figure out who Diomedes is disguising as.

He shakes his head mournfully. "I don't know. If the act possessing someone requires a ceremony of any sort, I certainly didn't encounter any situations like that. And the possession had only started after we'd received the reports of the attack on the Oriental Continents."

I frown. What could that possibly mean? Nevertheless, they're hints, even if they currently make no sense.

"Is that all you want to know, squires?" I blink in surprise at Sir Kendrick's slightly irritated tone.

"Yes, sir," interjects Gilbert in a soothing voice. "We would like to thank you for sharing all this information with us. If you'd like to pour out feelings to someone other than knights, just know that us two squires are always here."

The Bane smiles sadly. "I'll keep that in mind." He then stalks away without another word. Gilbert jabs me sharply in the ribs with his elbow.

"Ow!" I yowl. "What in Pst. Ailith's name was that for?"

Gilbert rolls his eyes so dramatically that I fear his eyeballs may get stuck in the sockets. "Pst. Kamira preserve me, you really are that insensitive?"

"Insensitive?" I squawk. "How was I insensitive?"

"You forget the fact that Sir Kendrick cannot simply confess his worries to his fellow knights," he says in a patronising tone. "He's the Bane—he's supposed to be the very projection of strength. Even after an ordeal like that, everyone expects him to pull through and barrel on stronger than ever."

"So exactly how was I insensitive?"

Gilbert exhales in frustration through his clenched teeth. "You just asked about the details of his possession without any regard whatsoever of his trauma!" I stare at him. I'd no idea that I'd been doing that. "He would've told us everything, eventually. You didn't have to be so blunt about it."

"I'm just asking for facts!" I protest hotly. "We need to know every detail if we want to weed out Diomedes."

"I know that," Gilbert replies, fighting to keep his voice under control. "But you could have done it in a more subtle way. He needed comfort, not distraction. You gave him distraction."

I grow quiet. Obviously my social skills are in dire need of polishing if I want to become a Bane. A Bane...Do I truly want to hold that title now?

"Anyway, shouldn't we be going off now?" Most of the soldiers and knights have deserted the field under the heat of the near-midday sun. The shadows have shortened in length, looking pitifully small next to the light. Something within me churns at the sight: the necromancer side of me stirring in dissatisfaction.

Perhaps some of my inner conflicts are reflected onto my appearance, as Gilbert asks, "Are you okay?"

I blink into focus. "I'm fine."

"Let's go. I think the heat is getting into you." As we walk off together, he suddenly raises a question: "Do you think necromancers tend to stick to the shadows and avoid heat altogether?"

I look at him. Had my disinclination to stand directly under the sun lately come across his scrutiny? "I don't know," I admit. "I've never felt so unnatural under high temperatures before."

"Necromantic powers only awaken after the necromancer is aware of his abilities, no?" Gilbert muses, strangely wise in his words today. "Perhaps the side effects only come when the abilities have been awakened. But I don't recall you undergoing any 'blood ritual' of any sort? Unless you've managed to perform such a laborious and complicated ceremony without anyone finding out?"

I tell him about the inheriting process of Miraterciel, and its subsequent transfer of powers into the new wielder. "Now that I think about it though," I ponder aloud, "it's strange that my abilities were already awakened once I received the athame, as I didn't believe in Mother's words at that time. Even stranger, considering that I hardly had any knowledge of necromancy prior to that..."

"Maybe the knife itself has powers of its own? When exactly, had you been able to manipulate the shadows? Immediately after receiving Miraterciel?"

"No." It takes a while before I spew the words out: "I think...it was only a week after the first ghost sighting that I could pull on the shadows."

"After the incident in the scrinaius then." Gilbert flushes as I give him an incredulous stare. "What? Don't tell me that I've touched upon a sensitive subject. Pietists forbid that I become as dense as you!"

A small chuckle escapes from between my lips. "It's nothing like that. You seem much more perceptive than usual today, that's all."

"So what? You're saying that a Champion of Pst. Ailith cannot be perceptive?"

"I wasn't implying that," I retort. "I was merely implying that since you don't bother to use your head on a daily basis, your inquisitive mind today is rather unusual."

"Remind me to never get on your wrong side—your subtle insults are really irksome."

"You have already gotten on my wrong side quite a few times now," I shoot back dryly. "However, since you don't usually use your head, I doubt that you've noticed my subtle insults before."

Gilbert gives a snort. "Let's hurry up. My stomach is rumbling terribly now." I can't help a mischievous smirk; I know that I've won this little argument.

Now that we're occupied for the whole morning, instead of the half-morning period like before, some of our squirely duties are cut short. So after physical training, we have lunch straightaway. Breakfast is a light, simple meal in between the interchanging of training soldiers.

Just as we walk out of the training field, my senses begin to tingle. Coldness is beginning to seep in; the darkness seems so much prominent than before. I take in a deep breath and concentrate—I can feel the tugging of the shadows towards one particular direction, towards the presence I've nearly forgotten in between my conversation with Gilbert.

"Follow me," I say curtly, quickening my pace towards the second laundry. Gilbert doesn't question my sudden change of direction, keeping pace with me. He knows that Diomedes is here.

With every step I take towards the second laundry, the more powerful the tugging in my stomach grows. It's almost as though Diomedes himself is pulling me towards him, making sure that I come no matter how I try to avoid him. I'm sure that if I try to veer towards somewhere else now, I wouldn't be able to. I feel a sudden cramping sensation around my chest, and it's not because of the bindings that flatten it.

We finally enter the area. I remember the time when Father had talked to me here, the day after Sir Kendrick had announced that he was going to select an apprentice. I also remember the sensation of being watched as I'd left the area. Don't tell me that Diomedes had been observing me for a long time now, before I was even aware that this whole mess was coming?

We near the abandoned room. Diomedes has chosen his timing well, when most of the servants would be out having their meal in the dining hall. The few who opted to remain behind he probably sent away with some kind of spell. Or perhaps he used a lesser spirit to force them out of the area.

It's becoming so much harder to breathe. I try to square my shoulders as I walk, only to fail miserably. I suddenly keel over, gasping for breath. I'm fighting Diomedes' necromancy, which is getting more powerful by the second. Gilbert gets onto his knees, coaxing me: "Constantine, we're almost there. You'll be fine."

Maybe he has woven a compulsion into his words, because all of the sudden I find some strength to haul myself up onto my feet. Whatever spell Diomedes is currently conjuring, it cannot be good. His presence is so much stronger than the last time we've encountered him.

Half-leaning onto Gilbert for support in my weakened state, I manage to unsheathe Miraterciel. Diomedes' power over me weakens, but not by much. We open the door together. I then realise why his presence is much more powerful than before.

A man who looks like a rotting corpse stands before us, his malicious smile revealing two rows of bleeding gums and holey teeth. His skin is grey, lifeless, full of wrinkles, stretched over a too-angular skull, making the bones look gruesomely prominent. He is clothed in a robe, the hood attached to it thrown back from his head. In one bony, brittle hand he carries a staff.

Diomedes has shed his skin.

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A/N: Well well well, so now you guys know what Diomedes looks like. And just so you guys know, I may not be able to post the next update until next Friday. Please don't kill me with flying potatoes! *crouches in a corner* Anyway, please remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!

Dedicated to AGirlInConverse. Just so you know, I love reading your comments so effing much. Oh, and thank you for being a super Champion!

Cambiria -- One of the two great states which occupied the continent of Ghaerlere before the Rift. Its people are said to be the blessed ones of the Pietists.