My eyes flutter open; I gasp for air. I notice that the branding iron has been removed from my skin.

My Mark is hissing with pain, but it's not as excruciating as I'd thought it would be. Rather, it's the visions I experienced that makes me feel naked and exposed. As if I am in immediate danger.

My eyes scan the area—the blacksmith is already wrapping a thick piece of cloth around the iron; my family stands rigidly, a little distance away from me; Gilbert raises a curious brow at me; the bishop is giving me a meaningful, slightly panicked stare.

I nearly slap my palm to my forehead—I'm supposed to burst into a praising hymn to the Pietists as soon as the branding is finished. The song abruptly explodes from my throat, fractured with pain, a dying soldier singing away his last breath.

The hymn ends. Everyone looks relieved that my poor attempt at singing is over. Father Alistaire hurriedly launches into a prayer about how the Pietists will bless Perinus henceforth, and how I will bring my country glory.

Oh, if only they knew the truth.

******

A dissonance drills into my ear, making me jump in my seat. My eyes hastily sweep over the music score set before me, identifying the note that I misplayed. I start to play that particular bar over again, only to have Sir Isaac's shrieking stop me.

"Are you trying to murder your lute?" he growls. "Even a screeching pig sounds far more pleasing to the ears!"

Music lessons with Sir Isaac has always been a painstakingly long lesson, due to the abusive remarks and relentless grilling by my appointed knight. The practicing room we currently occupy is empty, except for a few roaches skirting the corners. Across me, Sir Isaac cradles his instrument carefully, shooting me an intense glare. I apologise courteously.

He grunts in response. "And you expect to face the first assessment next week?"

After the Marking, I feel like a ghost haunted by past demons. My body is a mere shell—physically true, yet empty and soulless. A glassy look in the eyes would confirm that. All day, I can't stop thinking about my visions—were they real, or just makings of my own imagination? As a result, I had tuned out the hectic world revolving around me.

Until now, that is.

"What assessment?" I ask cautiously.

Sir Isaac gives me an irritated look. "The apprentices' assessment. Surely you've heard of it by now?"

"Wha – what apprentices' assessment?" I ask, bewildered.

"The as-sess-ment." The knight places spaces between the syllables, as though he's talking to a slow and stupid child. He rolls his eyes when I give him a blank look. "The big scale assessment at the end of the month, organised by the Knights of Elder to track the progress of all the potential apprentices to the Bane."

"But I thought that there was only supposed to be one assessment—the one that Sir Kendrick will be attending," I say weakly.

Naturally, he rolls his eyes at me once more. "Yes, yes. I know that—Pst. Amiticus give me patience—all of your bird-brained comrades gave quite a squawk when they found out that a collective assessment would be held at the end of every month. We decided that the assessments would give the knights a better chance to evaluate each and every candidate." He scowls a little at this, presumably because he couldn't sing my undeniable faults to Sir Kendrick on his own account.

"And...When exactly is the assessment?"

"Amcreday," he replies readily.

Amcreday. That leaves four days for me to prepare for an assessment that I never knew would be held until three minutes ago. And from the way Sir Isaac's eyes glinted, I'm guessing that the trials set by the wizened knights would pose as a more-than-formidable challenge for me.

Four days to meet my doom.

My appointed knight readies his plectrum over the strings of the lute, poised to continue the music lesson. "From the top," he says.

I sigh sadly, adjusting the lute so that it rests on my lap in a more comfortable position. Then a sudden question strikes my mind. "One, two, three. One, two, three!" Sir Isaac's signal to play comes clear. However, I fail to strum along with him, leaving him playing solo for a duet. His face swells up in a comical combination of purpling veins and bulging eyes. "Constantine! What in Pst. Coltiver's name are you trying to pull off?"

"I've a question, Sir Isaac," I answer him.

He looks ready to pull clumps of hair out of his skull, nearly smashing his lute onto the floor. In effort to cool himself, he closes his eyes and takes in deep breaths. After ten seconds, he peeks a single eye open to lour at me. "You won't be able to play until I've answered your question, hmm?"

"Your assumptions are not proven wrong, sir," I say gravely. His right eye twitches.

"Fine!" he barks. "Out with it! Doesn't matter if you practise or not. Makes no difference in improving your musical ability anyway."

I ignore his jab. "What is the assessment?"

"As if I'd tell you! I'd have to be dead first, understand?"

"I'm not asking for the details, Sir Isaac," I say, choosing my words very carefully, knowing I'm treading on dangerous ground here. "I want to know exactly what field of knightly training we'll be tested in."

He snorts unbecomingly. "Why would you want to know? And how many 'fields' are there in knightly training?"

I grit my teeth. The old man is definitely not giving me an easy time to talk to him. "I just want to be better prepared, sir, to give you honour," I say in my smoothest voice, attempting to stroke Sir Isaac the right way round. "In regards to the fields, as you know, we are trained in the many ways of the knights, which is not limited to combat. There's scholarly duties, court organising, music lessons..."

"All right, all right." Sir Isaac exhales in a defeated manner. "First assessment will be focusing on combat abilities. Second assessment next month will be on...general knowledge."

"Thank you, Sir Isaac." My voice is appreciative enough to allow a pleasurable flush rising in the knight's cheeks.

"Now can we get back to lute lessons?"

"Yes, Sir Isaac."

We ready the plectrums and keep our eyes focused on the scores before us. "One, two, three. One, two, three!"

I strike a wrong chord when the doors leading into the room abruptly fly open, smashing into the walls. The impact gives Sir Isaac and me a nasty jolt. The knight rises from his seat to glare at the intruder, who is wearing the scarlet and gold robes of the King's Court. A herald.

"What is it now?" screams Sir Isaac.

"His Royal Majesty requests the presence of Squire Rutherland immediately, sir," says the herald respectfully, as if just aware of his barging rudeness.

"Distractions, distractions, distractions." Sir Isaac sweeps a hand across his stand, sending a stack of Raydus scores flying across the room. "Why must there always be interruptions during my squire's music lesson? Can there be a single day of long-awaited peace?"

The herald offers silent sympathy, dipping his head to stare at his slippered feet.

"Not that any extra music lessons would be of any use," he says grudgingly. Turning to shoot me a sour look, he adds, "Fine! Go! You are henceforth dismissed from any further activities for the day."

I stand up and bow towards him. "Thank you, sir."

He sinks back into his chair. "Well, before you leave, there's just one thing that you need to do." My hands start to slick from cold sweat—polishing armour, cleaning his room, or garderobe duty this time? He gestures at the scattered papers on the floor. "Pick up the papers. Can't do it properly because of these accursed joints of mine. Never grow old, me boy. Die while you're still young—that's the best advice you'll ever get from anyone."

******

Like before, the herald leads me into the unassuming room where the last war council was held. The only difference is the new code name (dancing onions) and the sequence of the knocks (two sharp, four low).

Like before, I sit to the right of the king's empty seat, in between Sir Kendrick and my father.

Like before, Gilbert is joining the council as well, so I assume that there must be a further report about the ghost army.

Unlike before, noblemen are hurling insults at each other before the council has even started.

The insults are coated with a sickeningly sweet layer of politeness, a courtier's way of manoeuvring about court politics. But they are venomous, no less potent than a viper's stinging strike, designed to target and wound a weak spot. The exchanges are hushed, muted. Yet beneath the exterior of icy calmness lays a boiling volcano, churning and bubbling, ready to spew out lava.

The door opens with a quiet creak. Everyone straightens themselves immediately, temporarily halting all disputes. It's fortunate that they did so, for it's the last person who has yet to arrive—the king himself.

We all rise to salute him. He takes his seat and waves a hand at us. "Noblemen, please be seated."

The atmosphere seems more hostile than ever, frightening considering the serene faces in the room. Whatever they were arguing about, I'm sure it has something to do about the ghost army.

"Doubtless most of you have heard the rumours about the ghost army that have been circulating amongst the courtiers," begins King Terrell, his eyes focused pointedly upon the withering, miserable face of Baron Samareal. "Nevertheless, I would like Sir Kendrick to give us a formal report of the latest accounts of the ghost army sightings."

"Thank you, sire." Beside me, Sir Kendrick rises. He opens a brittle parchment of scroll, its ends singed into a charcoal black, with little spots of blood splattered upon it. It looks like men had died and killed to get the message here.

Given the circumstances the messengers were under, it's probably true.

"Er..." The Bane seems unable to find the right words to start the report, despite having years of experience and practice on making eloquent speeches. "Well..."

"Yes, we are all too well aware that the ghost army has disappeared," interjects Baron Samareal. "Now please, proceed."

I stare blankly at the baron; he flashes me a smile of uneven and rotting teeth. Gilbert looks at the baron as though the older man's mind has slipped off the edge. "It seems that both our Champions of War are still in the dark," he remarks, bemused. "Well, well. Haven't you told them yet, Sir Kendrick, Captain Eldric?"

"The information was never meant to be divulged to outside ears in the first place," the Captain growls unhappily.

"Still, I do think that our only hope and saviours should know what's happening. Don't you agree, Sir Kendrick?"

The Bane blazes a scornful look in the baron's direction. "But of course, baron. Which is the exact reason why I'm reporting the matter now, in case you've failed to notice."

The baron feigns a look of innocent surprise. "Why, I'm not aware that I've interrupted, seeing that you haven't even began your report. But pray, continue."

Throughout this poisonous exchange, King Terrell just watches, expressionless. In his eyes though, is a faint light of – of...I can't put my finger on it, but it isn't dissimilar to when a neutral party watches neighbours getting into a dispute.

Keeping a wary eye upon the tiny, almost pathetic figure down the middle of the table, Sir Kendrick clears his throat. He begins to deliver the report, with much more confidence now that he's fuelled by emotions: "By word of Zarephar Oraphan of Nilas, speaking in the name of His Most Honourable Tianzhong Xerias, who has recently perished in the tragedy that has befallen the lands of the Oriental Continents.

"All major cities of the region have perished save one—the port city of Hemelia, also the capital of Nilas. The leaders have agreed to make one last stand there and have transferred all remaining military strength. Commoners who'd survived the onslaught were evacuated there as well, not problematic considering the meagre handful of natives left.

"Thus, remaining troops were rallied and prepared for final battle. On the fifteenth day of the eighth month (in accordance with the Farubian Calendar), our scouts spotted the first advancement of enemy troops at the Northern Battlement Tower. Only, the attack never came. The ghost troops just vanished before our armies had a chance to meet them.

"Currently, the Oriental Continents are fortifying Hemelia in case of another attack. We require immediate assistance with food and water supplies. Signed, Oraphan." When Sir Kendrick finally finishes the report, Gilbert and I are left gaping at him. "The report was written about two weeks ago, according to the date. No further news of the ghost army has been reported."

King Terrell gives a twisted smile. "So, the ghost army has disappeared."

"This ghost army must be a mere hoax in the first place!" shrieks Baron Samareal. "It's a plot against us, the chosen ones of the Pietists! Don't you see? The northern countries are banding together in attempt to cripple us, to make us weak by stealing our supplies right under our noses!"

The noblemen murmur their agreement. My brows furrow together; I certainly hadn't thought about the matter that way before. Could it really be a mere ploy of the Oriental Continent to bring Perinus down?

"I will not disagree with your opinion, baron, but I prefer to keep my options open for now," King Terrell says lightly. Then he looks at me and Gilbert thoughtfully. "Both of you have been Marked now, no?"

"Aye. That's true, sire," Gilbert answers in my place.

"I certainly hope that Quinnian Allura's theory is right. Tell me, have you two felt any changes come upon yourselves?"

My counterpart and I exchange worried glances. "No, not yet, Your Majesty," I say.

"Hmm, the abilities of a Champion of War should only be able to manifest during combat. Captain Eldric, don't you agree with me?"

The Captain casts Gilbert and me a strange look. "Of course, sire."

"Then shouldn't they demonstrate their abilities now?"

Sir Eldric leans back in his seat warily. "It would be best if they do so," he admits grudgingly.

My body tenses. Surely King Terrell wouldn't—

The king's next words confirms my suspicions: "My Champions, you two shall duel now, in rejoice of both of your coming-of-age."

****** 

A/N: Dedicated to NeenorROAR - one of the readers who stuck with this story :)

Bane - The highest ranking general in a Perinian army, so named because it was believed that he would be the death of his enemies; derived from the Ancient Cambirian word 'banus', meaning poison.