Music is Becoming A Legend by John Dreamer. Play it!

Dedicated to all my Champions, because it's with you that I made it this far.

******

The people jostle each other excitedly, squirming in their seats to know the outcome of their bets. Typical Perinians. I resist the urge to give a disbelieving shake of the head.

"And the future Bane is—" My ears buzz. I'm abruptly overcome with dizziness. I feel so light on my feet—too light. Anxiousness is threatening to overwhelm me. I take in a deep breath, steeling my nerves. It's okay, I tell myself. It's okay.

"Squire Gilbert Falkner!"

Screams erupt from the crowd. Someone gets pushed out from our ranks, congratulating hands clapping his back—Gilbert. He looks slightly bewildered, scarcely believing what he just heard. He looks back towards us, as if looking for confirmation. Then his eyes meet mine.

We hold that stare for a while.

I search deep within me, looking for that flicker of jealousy that should be there. Throughout the years, this was the position I was vying for, the position that would finally heal the rift between my father and I. This was my childhood dream—my only ambition ever since I could process coherent thoughts in my head.

Yet I feel nothing but content. A satisfaction of knowing that everything is as it should be.

Because I'd made my decision months ago when we were training the soldiers. And I'd known Sir Kendrick's decision when he looked at me.

I flash Gilbert a tentative grin, silently saying that it's all right for him to take the position I wanted so badly. Relief floods his expression, and he returns the grin. He quickly wheels around, heading to where Sir Kendrick awaits with a gleaming sword in hand.

The process is rather similar to a knighting ceremony. Sir Kendrick steps forward, out of the stands; Gilbert drops down to one knee before his would-be master. "Do you, Gilbert Falkner, swear to uphold the word of the Pietists in every task you do, whether big or small?" Sir Kendrick begins solemnly.

"I do." Gilbert keeps his eyes trained on the tiny grains beneath his feet as he takes the ancient oath.

"Do you swear to be forever loyal to your country and king? To your Bane as a master?"

"I do."

"Do you swear to always act for the good of the people, no matter at what personal cost?"

"I do."

"Do you swear to uphold your duties as a Bane's apprentice with fervour and determination? Without complaint nor laxation?"

"I do."

"Then rise, Gilbert Falkner, for you are now my apprentice. Rise, and greet the faces of the people who cheer for you!"

Gilbert follows his master instructions, slowly rising onto his feet and scanning the audience. He pumps a victorious fist in the air, inducing another wave of enthusiasm from the spectators. His eyes sweep over the entire precinct, almost seeming to blaze a trail in their wake.

They land on me in the end.

I raise a fist to the air. A silent salute. He flattens his palm towards me, returning the gesture. Nobody notices our subtle exchange of respect, as candidates and common folk alike are too caught up in their rapturous ecstasy.

A fanfare blasts through the air, silencing everyone. "Now, we shall continue the celebrations of Remembrance Day!" declares King Terrell. His people scream in response. They eventually pour out of the stands, back into the celebration grounds, where the main events would be held.

Meanwhile, the candidates rush to congratulate Gilbert, lifting him up and throwing him into the air in typical knightly fashion. A small smile lights up my face. He deserves the title, no doubt of that.

I retreat into the shadows.

******

I'm the only squire left to arrange the weapons in their rightful places. No one had forced me to do this tedious chore. In fact, I volunteered myself. The other candidates were a little dubious of me at first, but after much reassurance, they relented. Now they're probably somewhere in the festival grounds, drinking and laughing to their hearts' content. After rotating guard shifts, of course. Meanwhile, the Knights of Elder who remained to clear up the mess gladly welcomed my help.

As I fit a breastplate over a dummy, my shoulders suddenly feel heavy. Father. How would he react to this? Gilbert is the Bane's apprentice, there is that. Nothing can change the situation anymore.

Constantine, just tell him the truth, Abner's voice rings in my head. Excellent timing.

I don't know, I reply forlornly, scrubbing the breastplate with unnecessary ferocity. Every single effort he poured into me was for this. And I failed.

You didn't fail. You never failed.

I know. I release a worried sigh. Unfortunately, he might think otherwise.

"Constantine." A voice pulls me out of my mental conversation with Abner. I wheel around; stormy eyes greet me. My breathing becomes hitched.

"Father." As a reflex, I bow. I barely conceal the trembles running all over my body.

"No need for such formalities." He steps forward, taking my hands and compelling me to look at him. His eyes crinkle at the corners; his lips are uplifted ever so slightly. He looks as though he is trying to calm a panicky mare. I try not to gawk at his sudden tenderness.

Then as suddenly as he took my hands, he lets them go. I rub my palms against each other, brows furrowing in confusion. What is he doing? He should be furious—he should yelling at me, absolutely raging. What has come over him?

A Knight of Elder is watching this exchange—Sir Evan. Father turns towards him, saying, "Do you mind if Squire Rutherland is released from his duties for the rest of the day? I'm sure I can send a few servants over to help."

"No need, Lord Rutherland," the older knight replies evenly. "Your boy has finished most of the work for us anyway. He should have his well-deserved break."

"Thank you." Then reverting his attention to me: "Come."

He stalks out of the armoury without another word. I trail behind obediently. Sunlight bursts into my eyes like a flare; I raise a hand to shield my vision from it. Perhaps I should lay off the necromancy for a while now, otherwise I may risk exposing my identity with its side effects.

Father leads us out of the arena, saluting idle Knights of Elder as we walk past. Eventually, we enter the festival grounds: rows and rows of makeshifts stalls neatly arranged in an enormous rectangle, sprawling across the outskirts of Cordair. Music and laughter ring in my ears, a beautiful bubble encasing me in complete bliss. Exotic sights waft in and out of sight—dancers twirling their ribbons, street performers juggling glassware, merchants proudly showing off their goods. And to think, that three months ago, these people were in such a state of despair. Yes, Remembrance Day truly is helping the citizens to crawl out of their grave of grievances.

I myself start to remember everything. The battle in the scrinaius, Allura's betrayal, the fight for Cordair, the discovery of my power over shadows, the first assessment, my Marking ceremony, the council of war...To where everything began. I suddenly recall something. "Father, back in the second laundry, when you attacked the table, what did you see?"

He doesn't answer immediately, focusing his eyes on an acrobat troupe performing air-borne tricks before us. "When I'd received the letter from King Terrell, I already knew that there was a ghost army coming, so I had to be on high alert while in Cordair. When we were in that second laundry, I thought I saw something pass—I know enough of necromancy to recognise shadow magic when I see it. I tried to attack it.

"I think it was a means for the necromancer to spy on us, but I'd deterred him or her for a while. After that, I never saw the shadow again. I should have been more careful..." He shakes his head. "The past is past."

"You were right," I add. "When I was leaving the second laundry, I could feel a strange presence watching me. I think it was Diomedes spying on us."

"Glad to know that my instincts aren't rusty just yet."

We continue to trail around, letting the festivities sink into our bones. There is a tangible scent of excitement lingering in the air. However, underneath it, I taste just the slightest tang of sorrow, of mourning. Fear—for what the future holds for Perinus.

"The harvest this year shall be plentiful," Father says, gesturing towards a stall where a merchant is selling coloured rice. Most of the goods on sale are self-made items, I note. Not surprising. Most countries have stopped their trade with us a long time ago, in fear that Diomedes' attention may turn upon them instead. Now that the threat has been vanquished, King Terrell is making efforts to reconcile trading ties between countries.

"How would you know?" I ask.

"Baron Samareal told me." We continue to mingle amongst the crowd. With his plain leather jerkin and coarse, but well cut breeches, Father easily blends in with the commoners. Thus, nobody minds us or grasps the corners of our clothing while muttering incoherent words in reverence. "His lands are, after all, the main backbone of Perinus."

Baron Samareal. "Isolde can't marry him," I blurt out.

Father's back was facing me. Now he turns around and regards me thoughtfully. "So she has told you."

"Aye."

"It is her duty." He casts his gaze into the distance, resuming his commanding gait. "She already has the privilege of not entering marriage until she is sixteen. That, in itself, is my gift to her."

I pin my eyes onto his broad back, unwilling to back down. "So is that how you will treat your daughters?" There. I've said it out loud.

"What do you mean?"

"Do not deny it," I hiss, stepping up so that he is right beside me. Damn whoever said that sons should always walk behind their fathers. "I failed to secure the apprenticeship. What are you going to do with me now?"

Something breaks in his expression. I barely maintain neutrality as a sudden sadness flashes across his face. "Have I truly been that harsh on you?" he asks softly, more to himself than me.

"I do not know. Pst. Nevlus would be a better judge."

He abruptly regains his composure. "Hurry up now. There is someone who wants to see you." He lengthens his stride, weaving in and out of the crowd with expert grace. I follow, clumsy and gawky, having to apologise to several people who I bump into. Soon, the crowd thins out: we're making our way towards the end of the stalls. My curiosity is aroused—who wants to see me? And why?

Just then, a familiar figure garbed in the royal blue uniform of the King's Guard steps into view. He gives us a bow. "Lord Rutherland, Squire Rutherland."

We both salute him. "Captain Eldric," acknowledges my father.

The captain's black orbs flick towards me. "I see that you've brought him," he says crisply.

"Indeed I have. He's in your hands now." Father smiles at Captain Eldric. Wait, smiling? No, my eyes are not betraying me. It's a real, genuine smile, one that eases many years off his face.

"Excellent. Squire Rutherland, I'd like to discuss something with you." I merely nod dumbly. What in Pst. Otheius' name is going on between the two? He begins to move, only to stop hesitatingly. He looks at my father with an incomprehensible gaze. "How is Lady Rutherland, if I may be so bold to ask?"

"She is in excellent health, Eldric. And happy," Father answers, quietly.

"I see." His monotone betrays no emotion. "Well then, let's not tarry. Come along, squire."

I follow him with overemphasized meekness. It looks like I'm being led to the Guards' makeshift base. A thousand questions run in my mind, each of them making me more nervous than the one before.

The interior is simple; wooden planks make for a fairly solid shelter. No embellishments necessary. Everything would be taken down after today anyway. Captain Eldric leads me into a small, tidy room—his temporary office. Again, I marvel at the Quinnians' ingenuity in constructing everything within two months.

Nothing but a table, two chairs and a cupboard furnish the area. Captain Eldric closes and locks the door behind us. "Sit." He waves a hand at the chairs.

I do. Despite the fact that I feel as though I'm walking into a lion's den.

He takes the seat directly across me. The captain fixes his hawkish eyes on my figure, making me fidget involuntarily. "Squire Rutherland, I have spoken to your father. He is disappointed that you did not manage to procure the position as apprentice to Sir Kendrick," he starts.

My jaw drops open. Out of all things, this was not what I'd expected him to talk about.

"However, since you've failed to secure one position, I will offer you another: apprentice to the Captain of the Guard."

I almost fall out of my seat.

He remains remarkably cool at my reaction. "Although I know this may not seem like such an interesting prospect to you, it's better than nothing. The Captain of the Guard may not be the highest position there is to offer in the army, but...You will be the king's left wing. You will guard his weak side—his most honourable bodyguard."

I grow silent. What are you waiting for? Abner screams.

Captain Eldric clears his throat uncomfortably. "I'll give you two weeks to think it over. I will warn you though, it is not a glamorous position. It is tedious, stressful, and oftentimes boring. Yet in return you gain the utmost respect from the ruler of Perinus. Besides," he says with a faint smile, "you certainly have talent in breaking discipline into men. As well as for interrogations. Those are the qualities I need in a captain."

"B—but what about Sir Cathom?" I sputter, recovering from my stupor.

"Sir Cathom makes a fine second-in-command. However, he lacks the leadership skills required to take my place."

I slump in my seat. "Why me?"

"I gave my word to your mother a long time ago." My eyes snap up in shock. "I promised her that I would do my best to take care of you, no matter how or when."

I search for the true answer in his eyes. I finally realise why the captain had relented to a squire's ridiculous demands to conduct an interrogation all by himself. I realise why there's always so much tension between the captain and my father, the captain and the Bane. I realise why he was so willing to sacrifice himself to get me out of Cordair, all those months ago. Most of all, I realise why he's offering me this position.

All because of the love he had harboured—or perhaps still harbours, for my mother.

It all makes so much sense now. I nod slowly, understanding everything. "I see," I say briefly.

"Of course, as I've said before, you have two weeks—"

"I'll do it." My voice is calm, confident. Captain Eldric's eyes widen in surprise.

"Squire Rutherland, surely you should think this over very carefully," he reasons. "It is a very important—"

"No. I'll do it." I lift my chin, staring at him with defiance. It's what I've wanted all along—I'd realised that some months ago. I never wanted to be the Bane. That was Father's dream, not mine. My dream is to be in the captain's place, commanding respect and loyalty, quietly working in the background, instilling strength in others.

That's the way to do it. A faint smile tinges my lips at Abner's encouraging words.

The captain finally registers my answer in his head. He squares his shoulders, speaking in an authoritative tone, "You'll have to swear your oath first. Hopefully we can arrange it by next week. After that, you no longer have to report to Sir Isaac for duties. You will be my assistant of sorts."

"Thank you, sir," I say, genuinely grateful.

His eyes glimmer sadly. I think he still wishes that I were his son, even after all these years. I think he still yearns for my mother even after all this time. I'm not sure what to make of that.

"The pleasure is mine," he replies.

******

Ridiculous. The celebrations are extending well into the night. In desperate attempt to get away from the endless rounds of alcohol pressed upon me and the drunken roars of men in the dining hall, I sneak out. Into Hangman's Tower. I make my way through with old fashioned night vision. No more relying on shadows now—they are far too volatile to be toyed with.

As soon as I settle onto the windowsill, legs dangled over the landscape, a creak sounds from behind. I whip my head around, alarmed. Then I recognise the silhouette. My shoulders sag in relief.

"Gilbert, what are you doing here?" I ask lightly. I haven't seen him since this morning.

"Most likely with the same reason as you: to get away from the drunkards," he retorts simply. He makes his way towards me; I scuttle over to give him some space on the windowsill. Gilbert settles himself comfortably beside me, like a lazy cat.

We stay silent for a while, drinking in the summer-autumn air. It's been far too long since I've been able to enjoy the view up here. A sigh of satisfaction escapes from between my lips. Indeed, it has been far too long.

"I'm sorry." Gilbert's voice draws me out of my admiration of the vista.

"What for?"

His head droops guiltily. "For...becoming apprentice to the Bane, and taking away what your father wanted most from you."

"It's all right." He raises a supercilious brow at me. I give a reassuring smile. "Truly, it's all right. I haven't had a chance to congratulate you, by the way."

"I've had enough of congratulations." Gilbert rolls his eyes. "You wouldn't believe the sheer amount of people already sucking up to me."

"Ah, of course. Hopefully I'm not one of those people."

"Yet here you are, sitting here and chatting with me, while those poor blokes down there are probably wondering why I have suddenly disappeared."

"Me?" Feigning horror, I place a hand over my breast. "Never!"

He emits a mirthless chuckle. "You sure you are all right though?"

The boy really can't let it go, can he? Abner's exasperated tone sounds in my head.

Be quiet, Abner. I don't want him to interrupt this conversation.

You're asking a permanent advisor in your head to be quiet. You might as well ask a fish to walk on land, he replies sarcastically.

Abner, I say warningly.

Fine. I feel him deigning to remain silent. I exhale in relief. However, Gilbert seems to take it that I'm still secretly vying for his current position. "Constantine? You sure you're all right?"

"I am," I say crisply. I proceed to tell him about my conversation with Father and Captain Eldric's offer. Some of the guiltiness fades from his eyes.

"So I'll have to work with you in the future? Pietists forbid that I get influenced by your sullen nature!" he says jokingly. We share a laughter; it tinkles in the distilled air.

Silence follows after that. Then suddenly, he asks, "It—it isn't over, is it? That day, you only temporarily pushed Diomedes away. But he will be back. And Allura..." His voice cracks halfway.

Allura. Allura—intelligent, elegant Allura. I've tried not to think about her during the past few months, busying myself with restorations and plans and such. I thought that the wound left by her—him, has healed. Evidently not. It still stings; it still hurts; it still rips my heart apart. Every memory I have of her is tinged with a bittersweet taste, filling my insides with inconsolable anguish.

She was the very first person to know my secret. She had been such a beautiful companion to Gilbert and me. She was my very first confidante. My friend. My sister. I could share anything with her—my laughter, my sorrow, my hopes. Anything.

And she betrayed me.

All along, my enemy was under my nose. And I hadn't even noticed it.

The old wounds reopen, raking deep scars in my soul. Tears stream down my cheeks, meeting the wet coolness of the night. My chest heaves up and down in racking sobs. Allura, Allura, Allura. Her voice rings in my head over and over, a terrible reminder of the source that had caused me so much heartache. I don't bother to wipe the tears away—they would only pour out with a vengeance.

Gilbert's eyes are lined with silver too. "I know. She—he pretended to be our friend. I thought that we were so close. Just the three of us, unbreakable. But he—" Gilbert's voice breaks halfway through his sentence. Uncertainly, I pat him on the back, trying to comfort him, although I need comforting myself.

"It'll heal," I finally say. "It will heal. I promise it, Gilbert. It won't be an easy process, but those wounds will heal."

Gilbert swipes a finger across his eyes. He manages a brittle smile. "I suppose so," he sniffs. "At least I still have you."

"At least we still have each other," I correct him softly.

We say no more, savouring each other's presence, soaking in the calm of the stars glowing above us. Heaven's stars, watching over us, guiding us.

"What happens now?" It's a fairly subjective question—the future is so full of uncertainties, full of ups and downs. But Gilbert still needs an answer. I rack my brains furiously for a proper response. I continue to look at the wonderful, miraculous dots shimmering in the sky, reminding me that I am a mere Champion, miniscule in the vastness of the universe. Reminding me that there are plenty more fights out there, waiting for me to challenge them.

"We are Champions of War. We do what we do best, Gilbert: We fight," I say.

Gilbert nods in agreement, turning his attention towards the stars as well. "We fight," he repeats.

The air eventually dries our tears, leaving nothing but a resolute determination behind. I am no longer the girl from six months before, selfish and constantly wallowing in self-pity. I am no longer doubtful of my identity; I do not loathe myself anymore. The barriers I have built around me have been broken down; I will live as myself, and not in the shadow of my father. I am a warrior, born and bred to fight.

And I have Gilbert to support me. We will fight. I will fight. Spawn of the Devil or no, I will fight to claim my true destiny—I will fight to thwart prophecy. I am Constantine Rutherland, daughter of Lord and Lady Rutherland, heir to the second-most prosperous province in all of Perinus; future apprentice to the Captain of the Guard; and Deathslayer, wielder of Miraterciel, bane of all errant necromancers. I am the Champion of Pst. Bronicus, the daughter of war, the true embodiment of a lion.

I have found my place in the world.

******

A/N: And that's a wrap! For the proper Author's Note, please swipe/click to the next part. Please remember to vote, comment, share and recommend!