Music is Light's Theme from the Death Note OST. Play it!

******

I look at Gilbert for answers. He shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, before returning his attention towards Maya. I do the same. It's hard to discern if she's lying or not; I've known her but for a few minutes; she could be an excellent liar, even with that dead serious mask. After all, those words had the effect of a perfectly practiced script.

Still, I have to proceed cautiously. There's no telling what Pagans would do if one treads on their wrong side. "What makes you say so?" I ask, striving to maintain a tone as gentle as possible.

"Because voices tell me," she answers calmly.

I look at Gilbert again. His eyes reflect what's going on in my mind: that a poor foreign girl has gone mad, and has washed up upon our shores in a fit of following the voices in her head. She had sacrificed her country, her people, her family; all for naught. I don't know whether to pity her or to condemn her for such foolishness.

"If you say so," I reply, just as calmly.

A spark of emotions bursts in Maya's frame. Her fingers ball into fists, and her lips quiver with fury. "I can prove it!" she shrieks.

"Then prove it."

The challenge, sounding bored and cold out of my mouth, seems to make something snap in the girl. I feel a rising heat in the air, subtle but discernible. For a fleeting moment, I panic, thinking that it's my flames that are going out of control once more. But then I realise that the heat isn't coming from me—it's coming from Maya.

A sudden burst of light blinds my eyes.

I snarl, throwing my hands over my eyes and curling myself into a defensive stance. Beside me, I sense Gilbert doing the same. An ember of the fire within me starts to flicker, instinct threatening to emerge and protect me. I can't let it do that—I'll lose control. I take in a few deep breaths and attempt to calm myself. It's just light, I tell the fire. Don't worry. It can't do much harm.

Light blinds. Light burns.

Not as much as fire.

The fire gives in. It leaves a strange sensation in its aftermath. Did I just...talk to it? I direct the question towards Abner.

Think of it as a training for your diplomatic skills, Abner replies cheerily. You do need to work on that.

Abner! I begin to prepare a long string of curses to fling at him, but a touch on my shoulder stalls me.

"Constantine, I think you should see this," Gilbert's voice rings in my ear.

With some embarrassment, I curl out of my defensive position and glance at Gilbert. His attention is fixated on something before him; his eyes are wide with wonder, and his lips are parted in disbelief. I follow his gaze.

All my doubts about Maya being the Champion of Pst. Zorah immediately vanishes when I see the ball of light cradled in her hands.

"You..." I stagger backwards in shock. I don't fear magic—how can I, when I myself am a wielder of it?—but this is something else entirely. Seeing a Pagan wielding a power that was never meant for them—never heard to be used by them...

Logic suddenly kicks in. She's a Pagan. A person from the lands which still practice magic regularly. This is just a street performer's trick. Nothing special. The element of surprise wears off, and I see Maya for the fraud she is. She's just taking advantage of our general ignorance of magic, using a simple spell in attempt to persuade us, thinking that we might so easily fall for her trap. As for Grand Seer Fabienne, the old thing would believe anything remotely magical thrown in her face. I can't say I blame her though. Desperate times drives ignorant minds.

My eyes flicker between Gilbert and the Grand Seer, who are both staring at the ball of light with fascination. Irritation builds up in me. How can they not see the truth?

"Is this supposed to be something special?" I ask, venom laced into my tone.

Maya startles. The ball of light flickers, before dying off. Darkness cloaks our figures. Abruptly, I wish that the girl would summon the light again, just so that I can observe her expression when I start accusing her.

"You ask me to prove it. I prove it," she protests hotly.

I take a step towards her. Our difference in height is palpable, and this is one of the moments where I'm glad that I'm so monstrously tall. As my eyes gradually adjust to the dim lighting, I see that Maya is struggling not to cower, but the fear in her is betrayed through the slight bow of her head.

An excellent liar then. I think of when she had stepped forward so confidently when I had asked of her purpose here. How easily do people fall when their livery has been peeled off.

"You are from Marshem," I hiss. "A Pagan who comes from a country where magic is still being practiced—a country which hadn't been affected by Diomedes, even all those years ago. Tell me, how simple is it to summon a ball of light? Tell me, if you are truly the Champion of Pst. Zorah, where were you when Diomedes returned?"

"Was not my time yet," she says, fighting to keep her voice steady. "The prophecy takes its own to unravel." 

A bark of cynical laughter escapes me. "Always with the prophecies!" I wheel upon Grand Seer Fabienne, who looks scandalised that I dare accuse a ward of hers. "Tell me, did you foresee this?" I gesture angrily towards Maya.

"I—You—"

"It's a yes or no question, Grand Seer. It shouldn't be that hard to answer."

"No," she gasps. "But there are some things even I cannot foresee. The Pietists have ways of their own. And Pst. Zorah was never one to reveal every trick up her sleeve."

"How convenient," I snarl. "The two of you are in this, aren't you? You think you can just...call me out in the dead of the night and expect me to believe every word you say? Some people may be muddled at this time, but I'm not."

"How dare you—"

"How dare I what?" I cut the Grand Seer off. "Accuse you of such blasphemy on your grounds? Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm the Champion of Pst. Bronicus—a real Champion. I have more authority than you two charlatans combined can ever have."

"If you were truly a Champion of Pst. Bronicus, you would listen to what we have to say!"

"I've heard enough. I don't what are your games, but stop them this instant. I hate being dragged out for unscheduled meetings, and I hate being lied to even more."

"Stop."

I open my mouth to retort, but something fastens my tongue into place. I gather my thoughts in my head, preparing a torrent of arguments in my favour, but every time I want to speak, they die out: my mind goes blank, and I just can't remember whatever it is I wanted to say.

The sensation ebbs away; all coherent thoughts return to me. I blink furiously, resisting the urge to punch Gilbert in the face. Before I can begin cursing him freely though, he says, "That's enough. We'll talk more about the matter tomorrow. I think we're all tired. This is no time to be having proper debates."

"Agreed," says Grand Seer Fabienne. Her face looks slightly pale. Perhaps she's not used to the effect of a compulsion. Meanwhile, Maya comes off as dazed yet collected. Her magical training—of whatever one calls it does have its benefits, it seems.

A storm of angry objections swirl on the tip of my tongue, but Gilbert yanks me by the elbow, draws me to his side and forces me into a bow, while sweeping into one himself. "A delightful night with you ladies," he says, crooked grin plastered onto his face. All trace of the authoritative commander from before has disappeared. "I'm afraid it's time we left though."

Then taking advantage of my confusion, he drags me away, practically sprinting across the space towards the manor. I struggle, but he digs his nails into my flesh and uses his strength to his full advantage, to my dismay.

When we finally return to the shelter of the manor, a thin sheet of sweat coats my face. However, that is nothing compared with the annoyance I feel towards Gilbert. "Why did you do that?" I growl, keeping my voice low in case anyone overhears us. "The Pagan was obviously lying! Why would you defend her?"

"I did not defend her," says Gilbert, folding his arms across his chest. "You just weren't in your rational mind. Wait till you've gotten a bit more rest before arguing."

"I am always in my rational mind. Don't you divert the topic."

Gilbert heaves a sigh, raking his fingers through his hair. "All right, it wasn't meant to come out that way. I'm sorry."

"What do you mean it wasn't meant to come out that way?"

"Get some rest. We'll talk about it tomorrow morning," says Gilbert. He sounds as pleasant as always, but I detect the faint undertone of a command. I know better than to go against it, as much as I want to.

And I hate myself for that.

"Very well," I say, although I don't feel very well at all. I force myself to turn away from Gilbert and walk back towards my room, if only to prevent myself from saying anything that betrays the raging hurricane of emotions within me. But that might be betrayed through the light slap of the heels of my boots against the marbled hallways.

Light blinds. Light burns. They will see the truth one day, the fire within me whispers. 

I don't agree, but neither do I protest.

******

I awake the next morning with a pounding headache and an insatiable urge to slap someone in the face.

Everything is too bright, too cheerful. The incessant chatter of servants floating down the hallways, the hum of activity floating in the air, the grinning faces that greet me 'Good morning' with impossible joviality.

"Someone is extra cheery today," is Gilbert's comment when I pull a chair next to him at the dining table. Apparently this room had been specially prepared for visitors who aren't used to the Lorelays' custom of kneeling on the floor for meals.

"Shut up," I grumble, stabbing into my breakfast with a knife as though it were an enemy soldier.

"You gotten enough sleep?" he asks, concern laced in his tone.

I set the knife down with a sharp clang and glare at him. He holds it without flinching, though I see that a small part of him wants to. And he should. Fortunately for me and for him—mostly for him—there is no one else having breakfast at this hour. No one to catch the subtle hint that something had happened last night to keep me awake.

"Of course I have," I snap, before attacking my meal again with renewed vigour. Then just in case anyone is overhearing this conversation, I add tentatively, "Thank you very much for your concern."

Gilbert shrugs his shoulders. "Anyway, Sir Kendrick is calling for a meeting at ten. Now that we've finally arrived, we're to discuss our approach to the investigation," he says. I sag a little in relief when he diverts the topic; at least I know that he isn't mad at my unusual snappiness. I'll find a way to return the favour later.

"Why couldn't we have discussed it along the road?" I say. "Should have been a better time to organise. Nothing wrong with planning ahead."

"Sir Kendrick prefers to access situations first before making a decision," Gilbert replies evenly.

"Of course he does."

"Not everything has to be planned in advance, you know?"

I pointedly ignore him and pop a piece of sausage into my mouth, allowing its taste to melt all over my tongue. Charlatans they may be, but the Lorelays are excellent hosts. I haven't eaten anything this succulent ever since...ever since I'd left Castle Rutherland all those years ago, I suddenly realise.

I gain a sudden respect for the meal before me, as well as a sudden regret that I hadn't appreciated it as much as I should, with my temper clouding my mind earlier.

"So, meeting. Ten o' clock. Don't be late." I hear the scrape of a chair against the floor. "The Raven Room—the place where we'd met with Grand Seer Fabienne last night."

Gilbert's footsteps are unhurried as they echo away. Soon enough, there's nothing but the clank of my utensils against my plate and the growing irritation in my heart to accompany me.

The boy was just trying to look out for you, says Abner, the first words he has said to me all morning. I'd sensed him, reluctant to surface, knowing that my anger could split with the slightest trigger.

I know, I reply, tone curt.

He's not the one you're angry at.

I know.

Then who—or what are you truly angry at?

Abner is trying to get me to analyse myself, catch me when I'm off guard and force me to think. And he knows that enjoy this—enjoy analysing every situation and finding the root cause of it. It helps to still my mind; gives me a temporary purpose that will spark the strategist in me.

So I think. Then I see the image that had been at the back of my mind throughout the whole morning, the one that has subconsciously been haunting my every single thought: the image of the Pagan witch, light pouring out from her hands, illuminating the darkness.

The Pagan witch, abandoning the safety of her home and her people, just because of a few voices in her head—or so she says. Till now, I have no idea what to make of her, and it's frustrating. Usually, one has a vague idea of who a person truly is after meeting him or her—a tiny gleaning of that person's soul. It could be a thirst for knowledge, a penchant for kindness, a tendency to gossip. Anything.

But I don't know anything at all about Maya, the Marshem girl. I can't tell if any one of her stories are true. They're all so ridiculous, yet they sound plausible. And her claiming to be the Champion of Pst. Zorah...No, it doesn't fit. The Pagans were never supposed to be the Pietists' chosen ones. Why now? Why Maya?

And then again, I'm supposed to be an abomination myself.

The memory of her light fills me again. Light—light to fight my shadows. Light to counter my darkness; the bane of the monster inside me.

Fear shakes me. And I now truly know why I've been irritated all morning.

Because it's been disguising my fear—fear that Maya's arrival is a sign that the Song of Prophecy is unravelling. Fear that I will have to face evil—and emerge victorious. Fear that I will be the evil itself, if the prophecy is anything to go by.

A chill snakes down my spine. All these thoughts just well up in a flash, already there to begin with—I'd just chosen to ignore it. But now...I think you know the reason why, I tell Abner.

I feel him humming in agreement.

The meal before me tastes like ash.

******

A/N: Looks like Constantine has formed an impression of Maya...and it doesn't look too good. Well, we'll see how this dynamic plays out! And it's evident that the prophecy is edging itself to the forefront of the events that are unfolding. 

Side note: From this point onwards, I have made quite a few offline edits in the story line versus the original draft. Minor points, but there nonetheless. Do point them out if you spot the inconsistencies! I can only do so much myself.

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